100,000 lousy coins
by RonCN
Summary: She wanted an easy life, thank you very much. Problem is, she also wanted the money. The reward got her in trouble with the whole Undrentide fiasco, and she never learnt: Yria is on her way to save Waterdeep... and to claim her 100,000 golds, of course.
1. Yria Ingerd

A/N: _Yes, I've done it. A retelling of my own of HotU, for now. Here's a bit of background on the heroine, the next chapter will jump right into the action - about the beginning of ch.2, of course. Follows the original storyline, but there're a few dramatic changes to it. So, please, read and do review: just a couple seconds of your time and endless happiness for me ;)_

Disclaimer: _What belongs to Bioware belongs to Bioware. The other characters -those you don't recognise- are mine. _

* * *

**Yria Ingerd**

Yria Ingerd was no hero.

She was not overly tall, nor was she petite. She was not slender and curvaceous, she was downright thin and, truth be told, quite flat-chested. Her hair was long alright, but it wasn't golden or ink black or fiery red: it was a quite common chestnut shade, not curly nor wavy nor straight but with attitude. An attitude of its own, mind you. The only amazing thing about her dark eyes was how often they hid behind the curtain of her bangs. She didn't look heroic at all.

Most importantly, she didn't _think_ heroic. She had a love for all things comfortable, like a warm hearth, a soft bed with thick covers, or a plushy couch in which to fall asleep. This makes us wonder how come she landed herself at Drogan's school for wannabe adventurers, in such a godforsaken place as Hilltop.

Well, she had a love for gold coins, obviously. How else was she going to acquire all those comfortable things, if she was stuck on her parents' farm?

Don't get it wrong, though. Adventuring was not the solution she found to that one problem. It's a bit more complicated. You see, it all started because of an elf. It happened fifteen years ago, and his role was quite innocent, so Yria didn't even remember his name by the time she reached Drogan's. But, in the end, it was his fault.

Yria Ingerd was a sorceress. Magic was a mantle that seemed to be easy to wear for her. Of course, back then, when she was five, it hadn't manifested in any colorful way, but it was there nonetheless. And in such a small community as hers, this was a rare feat indeed. Perhaps this was the reason behind the elf's actions, or perhaps fate was just being particularly playful that day, or perhaps there was some kind of intricate elven scheme and he was acting on High Forest orders. There's no way to know why during that Summer Festival fair, a trapper waltzed in town to sell his pelts, and to buy whatever it was he had to buy, and decided to pay some kind of attention to the very ordinary child who sat close to the vegetables stand. It was not any attention, either. He performed a trick to amuse the child. He pulled a silver piece out of her ear. The child stared at the coin in the ranger's hand in mute awe.

And she smiled. And she started to plot.

Of course, a five-year-old sorceress could do nothing. Besides, her mother was rather stern about being home before nightfall and being in bed soon afterwards. And Yria, obediently, complied.

She was twelve when she discovered that the vines of her backyard, those who reached almost to her window, could withstand her weight and, not only that, but were fully climbable.

And then, she put her plans into motion. She sneaked out and created all kinds of mischief in the middle of the night, aided by a handful of useful cantrips that she was already able to cast. Then she returned home. Then she offered a solution to the problem a couple days later, when concern invaded the villagers because they couldn't find the source of their problems. And, yes, then she reclaimed a reward. A neat trick and a gleaming silver piece afterwards.

And she did it again. And again.

She was sixteen when she discovered just how much weight the vines of her backyard could withstand.

It probably would not have been worse than a sore backside if Gurney hadn't been walking by, on his way to meet dear Anna. And still, it would not have been too bad if he hadn't thought it amusing to give the fallen girl a scare while she rubbed her bruised bottom and got her bearings back.

Because Yria was not overly brave, she was not only scared, but terrified to next week. This would explain the rather out of control surge of magic that knocked Gurney off his feet, carved a hole on the side of the henhouse and put fire to the vines of her backyard.

As she herself said the moment she realized what had happened: "Uh-oh..."

And so, she packed her stuff and her not too small bag of coins and, a long trek and a few days later, she knocked on Drogan's door.

The good-natured dwarf took her in, no questions asked, and spent three years teaching Yria how to control the power she had. It would have been over right there, were it not for the kobolds' raid.

Even though she made sure not to get to the fight too early, because she loved her precious life very much, she had time to do her bit and fell some of the scaly ugly little things. Her part in that great drama that later on would be known quite widely as _Shadows of Undrentide_ would have ended there and then, were it not for two fateful sentences:

"They have stolen four artifacts? As in, four _powerful_ artifacts? What were they doing here of all places? Furthermore, what _are_ they?"

And...

"Me!? Why me? I'm gonna get killed! No, wait... I trust there will be a handsome reward for doing this, if it's so important?"

And thus, Belphron's dry hand found its way south, to a Thayvian market via a rather nice and handsome Thaymart owner; and the Mask of Mask or Mask's Mask or whatever it was really called proceeded to spend an awful lot of time stuffed at the bottom of a ragged traveling bag instead of at its rightful place; and an ancient wyrm's tooth was never turned into the powerful amulet it had the potential to be, but found a rather interesting new destination, namely holding the pointy hats of a weird eccentric wizard who lived isolated in the High Forest, and who could afford to buy an add-on to his menagerie for 1,200 gold pieces.

Of course, the whole event did convey danger, mostly when they discovered why the Mythallar was being sought after and just what kind of a creature was doing all the seeking, but in the end, it was worth it. It was profitable. Besides all the Netherese magic Yria found – and bartered into decent coin -, Deekin the kobold bard did get around writing a successful epic – and Yria did manage to get some exploits out of that one, too. But that's another story altogether.

In any case, adventuring life would have been over to 20-year-old sorceress Yria Ingerd at that point if she hadn't caught wind of the latest potential "gold mine": 100,000 coins, in one go. After all, why retire just when the chance to double her fortune presented itself? So the girl packed her things and hit the road towards Water Deep.

When she collapsed onto the bed of the inn where the entrance to Undermountain was located, she was still counting gold pieces.


	2. So not speaking in rhyme

A/N: _Next part. This time, there's a lot of dialogue. I hope it helps, giving more background about the character. Also, towards the end, there's some lines straight from the game. I won't do this often (I'll probably never do it again) but I needed to crack some fun at them, so please do read them and the new inputs... I believe it's worth the extra minute ;) Thanks for reading, and thanks for reviewing. Without further ado, on with the show! _

* * *

**So not speaking in rhyme**

Yria gave a rather frustrated grunt and readied herself for another assault.

"Oi, mate, I really think that's enough..."

The sorceress threw a look at the halfling who had spoken, and proceeded to thoroughly ignore the comment.

"Y'know, I can really admire a lass with yer dedication but there's no point." Tomi went on, unfazed.

"Oh? So what do you suggest? That I just turn my back as if it weren't here?"

The rogue laughed heartily.

"Yria, lass, 'tis a double axe! That bag o' holding o' yers is straining at the seams, it just won't fit!"

Yria Ingerd took a moment to consider her companion's words as she straightened up, her hands rubbing her sore lower back. She looked quizzically to the bag resting on the floor at her feet, from which about a third of an axe's handle and its corresponding head protruded, and blew her bangs out of her face for the umpteenth time since the combat had started. Slowly, a wide grin crept its way onto her face.

"It's just a matter of... of engineering! Organization! Mark my words, Tomi, it's as good as packed!"

"If ye say so... I'll just be hangin' around here, okay? Takin' in the scenery and all that..." The halfling shook his head and moved some paces to the side, where a drow corpse lay in a pool of blood. A quick glance told him that the body hadn't been searched yet, and so, with a quick movement, he pried an ornate ring out of its finger.

Because Undermoutain was big, and Tomi had been traveling with Yria for a good while thus learning a few facts, he made sure to move silently and to conceal his prize as soon as it was out of its former owner's finger. Still, he nearly jumped out of his skin when he felt a rush of movement at his back.

He only allowed himself to breathe again when he realized it had been that mysterious she-drow, Nathyrra. She bristled and towered over the crouched sorceress, and Tomi swore later on that there was fear on her obsidian features.

"What in the six hundred and sixty six layers of the Abyss do you think you're doing, surfacer?" She hissed, "This is an archmage we're dealing with! Do not cross him, you fool!"

Yria looked up from her re-organizing task – amazingly enough, the double axe had nearly disappeared in the bad – and made a show of looking about, as if searching for the person the drow was addressing. Then she fixed her most innocent look in Nathyrra's face.

"Me?"

The drow's eyes narrowed to thin slits, and she huffed.

"But I am no fool! The fact that I've just taken out two encampments of invaders from the Underdark should clue you in! I mean, how else could we have won the upper hand over ah, roughly estimating, let's say fifty mighty drow warriors with their cohort of priestesses and wizards and...?"

"You had help", the stranger's tone was icy, and Tomi winced inwardly while pocketing a wand that looked suspiciously like it was able to call the lightening.

"Of c_ou_rse we did! Isn't that the mark of true cunning? Be always informed; work out arrangements that shall suit your needs... and those of the other party as well, to avoid treason whenever possible. Doesn't that prove that I am, indeed, quite smart?"

Nathyrra, the usually cool and temperate scout, threw up her hands in desperation.

"That's beside the point! Do you not realize that Halaster is right there, and that he will kill us for not freeing him?"

Yria's gaze followed the line indicated by Nathyrra's waving hands, and stared thoughtfully at the trapped archmage for a second. There was a point to what her most unsuspected ally was saying, of course. Then again, the whole Undermountain had proved to be more than she bargained for. At first, she even thought that she had taken a bite too big to chew, but then again those bloody drows had had the gall to steal her stuff. Actually stealing it, to the last worthless scrap. She had thrown such a tantrum that she had barely noticed the power of her enemies when they had burst into the Yawning Portal Inn minutes later, and only the fact that she kept her gold in a bad under her pillow, thus avoiding its theft, had prevented her from going berserk.

Still, the huge dungeon crawl that was Undermountain hadn't been easy, by any stretch of the imagination. The changing nature of the first level had turned out to be a pain in the behind, and the local fauna round every corner did its bit to make her way miserable. The random raiding parties of duergar and drow that she would find were the only thing that kept her pushing forward, assuring her that she was on the right track to recovering her hard earned... well, earnings.

The second level had proven... quite a distraction. By that time, she had completely, positively decided that Durnan's reward was not worth it. Why, she had managed to pilfer twice as much already. Weapons, armor, and countless items she was never going to use found their way to her pockets (metaphorical pockets, of course... the trinkets were just too big to fit on the real ones) as she made her way through the corridors immersed in a looting spree. She even asked Deekin to tag along when she went back to the surface to barter and to get more provisions, so that they could carry more weight. Then she found Tomi, a halfling after her own heart...

When she found her equipment, quite down below, she was almost disappointed.

Perhaps that was the main reason why, afterwards, she had heeded Nathyrra's advice and had done a rather impressive rescuing attempt. After all, who knew what wonders laid at Undermountain's heart?

Several volleys of fire, ice and thunder; countless screams and shrieks; so many knives to the gut that Tomi barely felt his arm anymore; and some discordant chores on Deekin's part proved that whatever those wonders were, they were long gone. A elite patrol of drows, a trio of commanders, and the old Mad Wizard. That was all.

By Yria's judgment, it was only logical that she tried to get some gain after all the efforts. She had saved the wizard and she was keeping the loot. She sighed and looked again at the only living drow of the huge room.

"Look, he's just standing there. Nobody's torturing him, and he seems quite content. I'm just taking what no one's gonna miss, you know, helping to clean out the place a bit... For all the troubles, don't you agree?"

Nathyrra looked straight back at her, unable to believe what she was hearing. A raspy voice filled then the silence, as the small, scaly figure of Deekin crawled out from under the debris where he had hid during the fight.

"Boss?... Deekin thinks maybe drow lady is right here, boss." He almost pleaded with her "Boss, he's not called MAD wizard for nothing, don't you thinks?"

The sorceress gave this some thought.

"Oh well. Alright, Deekin. But grab that quarterstaff! No, not that one... the one belonging to the _important looking_ corpse, Deekin! Good. Now... how do we get this Halaster fellow out of the Valsharess' trap?"

Tomi, who was examining the stones surrounding the wizard carefully, shrugged.

"Probably we could kind of destroy this rocks, and then the wizard would be out and about"

"And you really needed to stop my carefully engineered packing to break a rock?" She shot a disbelieving look at the drow, who shrugged in turn. "Oh, well... here we go... By the way, Tomi, you can keep the wand, but hand over the ring right away, if you don't mind."

She had barely finished talking when arcane energy gathered between her open palms, and within the blink of an eye she shot the spell forwards.

"No!" Three voices shouted in unison, and three figures winced visibly upon looking at where the now fireballed Halaster stood.

"Boss? That really was your own idea, Boss. Deekin don't wants to know anything about MAD ARCHwizard now, Boss..."

The wisps of smoke cleared in a few moments that felt like hours, and the four companions let out the breath they had been holding when they saw that Halaster was none the worse for wear, except for the crisp tips of his now blackened moustaches. Furthermore, he didn't seem to be bothered by the attack... he hadn't acknowledged that it ever took place, in fact. The infamous mage just walked out of the presently destroyed trap, and dusted off his robes before addressing the worried group.

"You're not the one I expected to see. But I'll let you live, since you set me free."

"You're being condescending? I just saved your life, you know! And anyhow, who were you expecting to... waitaminute, are you speaking in rhyme?"

Halaster glared down at the sorceress, but was interrupted by a curtain a scintillating smoke. When it cleared... it showed a second, identical Halaster, and the first one forgot about the girl's impromptu to interrogate the newcomer.

"Finally, you're here! What took you so long? I was beginning to think maybe something was wrong."

"Oh my, he does speak in rhyme..."

"Since we're both clones, you should know why I'm late. To lure out the matron, I used you as bait! A brillian trick, a wonderful trap... she would come here to gloat, I'd pop in and... ZZZAAAPP! But you meddlers ruined my plan by freeing my clone. Now the Valsharess won't dare come out of her home!"

"Here I was trying to help a bit, and it turns out that Halaster's actually a..."

Tomi's foot connected solidly with Yria's shin, and the rogue directed a terrified look her way. She only smiled her most wicked smile in return.

"But we all should enjoy this game; don't you find wasting it it's a shame?"

The halfling covered his face with his hands, but he actually smiled, and Deekin even cracked a small, raspy laugh. Not that the Halasters had paid any mind to Yria's efforts, anyway, as they kept they own heated discussion.

"Wait just a moment, my identical friend. You seem somewhat confused, and I want it to end. You were nothing but a safety device. I created a clone, and put it on ice. I knew that one day I might get into trouble. I'm the real Halaster, you're just my double."

"I think you're mistaken, you were only a ploy. I let the drow catch you, you're naught but a toy!"

"I know how you feel, but you're not even real. You're just a double to save me from trouble! It's hard to accept, but I'm afraid that it's true. The original Halaster is me, and not you."

"Which is the clone, which is the master? How will we know the real Halaster? I can't believe this has happened. What a disaster!"

"What a tragedy, what an amount of stress! This is indeed a pity; not knowing whom I must address makes me feel a little... irky!"

The two clones rounded on Yria, both with identical, confused frowns.

"We will settle this later, when we're one on one..." One of the Halsters started, dubiously.

"Something to barter; and this bunch's on its way gone..." Yria added helpfully.

Halaster – the one who had been speaking – paled.

"You're stealing my lines!"

"I am doing no such a thing; I'm just practicing my performing skills..."

The offended Halaster turned on its clone.

"Halaster! She's... she's _rhyming_! Tell her to stop this moment! Rhyming is my right!"

"Oh? So now I am Halaster? And rhyming is my right, you clone!"

"Are you going to start again? I tire of waiting around in vain"

The sorceress crossed her arms in front of her chest and aimed her Cheshire cat grin at the arguing, non-rhyming wizards... Or the one wizard and the thing... or whatever they were. She knew she was walking thin ice, but it was _fun_. And, honestly, there was no profit in not reeling up the wizard... It was quite obvious he wasn't going to reward her for her efforts in freeing his dungeon. The ungrateful crackpot.

One Halaster (upon close examination, Yria thought it was the fireballed one) just gaped at her. The other, bristled, fumed, and then sputtered.

"Down to the Underdark is where you will go. You're working for me now, you can't really say no."

"That's how it shall be? May I inquire about the fee?" Yria's mouth replied, but her mind was already reeling. The Underdark... the Valsharess... Cities of drow, of beholders, of other powerful things long forgotten, and all within reach... The adventure of it all! The profit!

"You have no choice but to do as I say. But once the Valsharess is dead, my spell goes away. After that I promise you'll truly be free... but don't do something foolish, like come after me. So sorry, no time, you really must go. Don't worry, it's fine, you'll do well, I know. Goodbye, best wishes, I bid you good luck. Go kill the Valsharess because until then, you're stuck."

"Boss is going to the Underdark to fight big scary drow evil lady? Boss! Do not forget about Deekin, Boss! Deekin gots to come with you to write another great epic!"

"Wait! Not yet! That damned halfling's got half my loot!"

Yria shouted, and she heard the cries of Deekin just as the powerful magic of Halaster started to engulf her. The last sentence got to her muffled because of the astral darkness than enveloped her body and mind during the teleportation, and though she did reach out towards where the faithful kobold should be, she soon found she had no limbs to reach out with as her body merged and flowed with the Weave.

When she recovered her body and her senses she was not all that grateful, for the first thing she noticed was a loud _thud_ as her bottom collided with a polished stone floor. The second thing was an enormous amount of shouting, seemingly enough to break her head in two. The third thing was the pointy, cold, and mostly sharp end of a spear against her neck.

She looked up into a grim, stony, ebony face. Behind that face, barely illuminated by fairy fire, she saw a huge statue... of a spider, of all things. She shuddered at the sight – spiders were one of those few things she actually hated – and shuddered again when she realized where the stupid wizard had landed her.

"Uh-oh..."


	3. The Seer, the drow, and the goat

A/N: _Here we come again, next installment. This one is shorter than I actually intended it to be, but then again it was pretty natural to cut it where I've cut it. As always, let me know your thoughts. For disclaimers, go to ch.1_

* * *

**The Seer, the drow, and the goat**

Of course, when Halaster told her that she'd be facing down the Valsharess, she never thought it'd be straight away. That one would certainly maim her profit hopes, what with not having time to run around, pilfer and barter. Probably that was the only reason why her next, coherent thought was -

"You're so kidding me."

And perhaps it's just her boasting nature, or perhaps there's some truth to the statement she made much, much later, claiming that it had been that one sentence the one saving her life when a whole bunch of psychotic, bloodthirsty, overzealous drow elite warriors were about to jump on her like a rabid dog on a stuffed rabbit.

Then again, perhaps they were just a handful of followers of the Dark Maiden who came out of the deal as scared as she herself did, and who never made much of a fuss because, after all, they were expecting her.

Whatever the case, a fact pretty much acknowledged by all is that, a couple heartbeats after Yria walked in on either a small ceremony or a battle briefing, another disturbance of the Weave dropped Nathyrra by her side.

Because it has been agreed upon that the sorceress was surrounded, the drow lady accidentally knocked over one of the males doing the surrounding, and it could have been humorous if the whole incident hadn't involved quite as many blades.

In the middle of the ensuing confusion, nobody noticed a third figure popping in, a small scrawny creature clutching desperately a quarterstaff and a leather bag that looked like it had been fought over. Because Deekin showed up, there's now a record of the events that followed, all the way to the apotheosis of the end.

Then again, because it was Deekin, the renowned story known as Hordes of the Underdark might be quite far away from the events it records.

For example, Deekin liked the she-drow known as the Seer, and he actually ogled at Nathyrra as often as he could. Thus, just after the Seer went onto a rant about how the chosen ones should work for free, and all should join forces against a common evil that would destroy both the Underdark and the Night Above, he conveniently left out the part in which Boss tried to secure their basic costs with a fee of 150,000 gold coins, plus free temple services, rations and accommodations. That part did happen, though. He wrote that eventually Yria agreed to do the job, just left out that before such moment ever took place, the Seer had to use her own ring to complete the payment or that Nathyrra had sent the surfacer _to the light_ about five times before they managed to get any kind of contract validated.

On the other hand, Deekin disliked Valen... his lines on the final version of the book were dramatically shortened. He did get some lines in, though, which is much more than what could be said for others...But that's getting ahead of events, and in any case that's enough about Hordes of the Underdark. Everybody knows that version, and it holds no interest anymore.

What is more interesting is what happened in the small Lolth temple of the small drow rebel community, after the young sorceress settled her payment – at a ridiculously low rate, mind you.

Yria sat cross legged on the obsidian floor, staring up at the white robed figure of the Seer, who was, in turn, sitting on a bench made of something akin to wood and deeply immersed in telling the story of how the Valsharess came to be. Nathyrra was to the side, leaning against the wall within the shadows, and an imposing male figure, which seemed to go by the name of Valen, towered behind the priestess. Both kept mostly quiet, only filling in their own opinions when they felt that the Seer was leaving something out. Other than that, the guards had been granted leave and the temple was shrouded in silence – bar the melodic voice of the Seer, and the quick, constant scratching of a quill upon parchment as Deekin took his notes.

Yria was not happy.

Her initial idea of gaining profit and silently melting away proved to be doomed. First off, the Seer seemed intent on her, of all beings, being some kind of savior against the mighty foe. Yria could live with that one. Secondly, though, the red haired, horned male behemoth that loomed constantly near the woman had proclaimed, quite openly, his hostility towards her and his firm decision to keep an eye on her. Yria felt how her mission was becoming increasingly difficult. And last but not least, she found out that Halaster had had the nerve to place a geas on her soul, a compulsion that would force her to seek the Valsharess out and to strike the killing blow. Yria saw how the trap neatly closed in.

"Okay", she sighed, "I can see what kind of chick this Valsharess is. From what you tell me, just another upstart Matron with an arch-devil bound to her biding, thus becoming quite the inconvenience... right?"

"Do not belittle the importance of this threat, fool..." Valen seethed "You know nothing of the lengths I've gone to in order to keep the rebels safe up to now. I shall not see it all ravaged because of some surfacer with no clue as to what..."

"Valen", the Seer cut in, "that will be enough."

But Yria waved the interruption away. Almost as if she had wanted the other to go on a rant...

"But _precisely _my point!" She sprung to her feet for effect and moved close to the warrior, bringing his muscled, heavy, hardened countenance in contrast against her own weak and innocent look. "If _you_ have not been able to best her, how could I alone do the deed? I can hardly go and knock on her door, now, can I? Besides, I don't even know how to find her door, in such an alien place as the Underdark, full of dangers... It'd take an army to undertake the quest."

It was the logical answer to the fighter's outburst, of course. Of course, she had made it look like she had been driven to say it, no as if the tiefling had had his buttons pressed to go into ranting mode in the first place. As he scratched away, Deekin smiled as much as his scaly face allowed him to. Boss had a plan.

Sure enough, Yria's own mind was reeling, all of its gears turning and churning trying to envision a way out. The geas forced her into the adventure, but she'd be damned if it threw her in alone.

Valen opened and closed his mouth a few times before growling out at figuring the bait he'd taken.

"I can help you", he said through grinded teeth, "I know where we could find some allies, or help, or luckily both. Down the Dark River there're a couple of isles that have been overseen by the Valsharess for now. One has sprouted an elf city of some kind. The elves might be willing to help, or if that's not the case it still must have taken a powerful artifact to make the city pop in out of nowhere. The other one is known as the Isle of the Maker, a dwarven wizard who is said to have mastered to art of creating golems to the point of creating sentient beings. If this Maker is still around, perhaps he can be persuaded into lending some battle golems for the cause."

It is said that only human beings trip twice over the same stone. It is true.

"Powerful wizard, you said? Just how powerful is he, anyway?"


	4. Down the river flows

A/N: _Next chapter's here. It is a bit long, I am not sure about how it works. Also, there's a nice mixture of styles in this chapter: the in media res you must be familiar with if you've been reading me, a lot of dialogue in the "present" part, and there's also the first fight scene of the story. I'd specially appreciate some feedback on this installment because I'm not sure I can write fights properly, so I'd like to see what you think of the result. Also because I don't know if such a mixed chapter works... Oh well. On with the show. _

* * *

**Down the river flows**

"Quickly now! There's just so much time before that... that thing comes about again! Have you found anything to be used against the Valsharess?"

Yria looked up from behind the moth-eaten cover of a thick volume, a confused expression on her face.

"The Valsh...? Oh! Yes, erm... almost, I'm getting there. There's this most interesting treatise on..."

Valen huffed, a deep scowl set on his features. His breathing came labored and he was leaning against the doorjamb. At his feet laid the carcasses of two metallic minotaurs, lifeless and harmless. However, both the tiefling and the sorceress knew that it could change, and it would change, soon enough. That was the reason why Valen kept throwing looks out of the door to the massive library, into the dark hall, spying the approach of what had already been dubbed as "that rotten damned thing": a flesh golem who wandered the laboratory's ruins, fixing up any non functional golem it found.

"Most interesting, I am sure. Unfortunately, I couldn't care less. Get whatever you need; we have to leave this wretched place."

"Yeah, right away... hold on a minute, will you?"

Valen grunted and threw a concerned look out the door again, but nodded his consent. Yria maneuvered the tome in her hands so that it'd fall right under the magical light she had conjured and kept reading.

The young sorceress had been pretty much overwhelmed at the amount of lab notes and useful knowledge to be found in the Maker's forsaken tower. When, back in the drow camp, Valen had told her of the existence of the isles, and of what might await her in them, all thought of the Valsharess, of the geas and the oncoming battle had fled her brain. She had been eager to just move out and find out the countless marvels that the Underdark held for her.

She had felt so exhilarated that she'd not even cared about undertaking the mission with the sole company of a man – or a half man, or a half demon, or whatever he was – who could crush her skull almost by accident. More worrisome, it was someone who actually wanted to do just that.

In any case, from that fateful point on Yria had barely registered the words of Nathyrra as she droned on about how they should undermine the Valsharesses' power by eliminating some of her allies. The human girl had proclaimed that they should start by increasing their own strength before the crazy drow realized how they were moving against her. It was logical, of course. The fact that it suited her needs perfectly was only a minor coincidence that she forgot to mention at the time.

Besides, her current employers had agreed, so there really was no reason for the assassin to go all grumpy and to say that in that case, she was going to scout the outskirts of the city.

The sorceress would have thought it a good plan nevertheless if it hadn't left her with only Valen to accompany her.

Still, she had been determined not to let it become a worry. Because she was extremely good at fast-talking, she eventually persuaded herself that if he turned out a bit more aggressive than necessary, she could always fry him while he was busy trying to hit Deekin.

It had really sucked when, a scant half an hour later, while the trio was face to hood with the boatman Cavallas discussing fees and schedules, Deekin had piped up saying that he so disliked boats, right before fainting. Yria had felt her left eye beginning to twitch as she - more or less gently - slapped some sense back into the kobold while the tiefling watched in contempt. She had tried to persuade, coax, push, and command the bard to join them, but he had just looked at her with sheepish eyes and had slipped through every single one of her verbal traps. The sorceress had given up after realizing that she was probably making a fool of herself, and had decided that, since Deekin was not going to be her faithful companion, he would at least come with her to the drow's market... as soon as she was back from her enterprise.

The penalty for his "_treachery_" would be to carry all the loot she intended on bartering.

She had looked sideways at Valen while they boarded Cavallas' boat, and had tried to tell herself that, being tall and broad shouldered and strong as he was, he surely would make a decent shield against anything that came against them.

The Isle of the Maker had been her first chosen destination.

When they had arrived, they had run head on into a group of gray dwarves. Honestly, she had wanted to avoid them, but they had set up camp right in the middle of the only possible way between herself and the Maker's lair. However, though Yria and Valen both had been wary and reluctant at approaching the group, they had been lucky: they were just an expeditionary band of scavengers, and not only had they not attacked the pair, but they had offered up some useful information on the ruined tower the sorceress intended to enter.

That had been the last bit of luck that smiled upon Yria that day.

Just as the duergar had said, the tower had proven to be full of junk and of broken pieces of golems. Also, just as the duergar had said, there had been a bothersome flesh golem wandering the halls. Valen and Yria had barely gone into the bulk of the building when they faced the construct for the first time: right before their eyes, it had gathered a bunch of copper and iron shreds, had shouted something that sounded like "sinth tesi", and had kept on walking, paying no attention whatsoever to the intruders.

Unfortunately, the metallic minotaur that had risen out of the debris had been very much aware of their presence.

Thus had started their nightmarish routine of destroying a few golems, rush on, being caught up with by the rotten damned thing, and destroying the same few golems again.

Someone sane would have given up after finding shelter within a side chamber... only to find out that four stone golems stood in said chamber. Valen, however, saw the unlimited possibilities of such a self-repairing army obeying the Seer. Yria, obviously, saw the price it would reach on the free market.

And so they had pressed on, until they had found the huge library of the Maker.

"Valen, have you noticed a control room?"

The sorceress closed the book she had been reading with a thud and looked to the tiefling.

"Why, yes. Just two room before this one. There was also a lever saying 'deactivate golems' on it."

"Really?"

Valen gave her a weird look, but his retort was cut short by the unmistakable noise of the rotten damned thing drawing closer. He growled.

"I hate that thing."

Yria bit her lip, looking thoughtful.

"There is a lower level. Perhaps we could run for it: it seems like that thing has a pretty much pre-defined patrolling path..."

"And just what would we find down there?" the warrior smirked, and Yria smiled sweetly back at him.

"You could also face down the iron golem around the corner again, of course."

"... Lead the way."

The sorceress closed her eyes to memorize the layout of the ruins she had just read about, turned on her heel and started running, Valen close behind. Just as they exited the library, they heard the "sinth tesi" command, and the deep rumble signaling that a golem was operative once again. The pair skidded around a corner, wrenched open a door and jumped through it before the golem standing guard a little way ahead in that section even noticed there'd been intruders there, and almost without slowing down they approached the last turn of the corridor that would lead them downstairs.

Knowing by now that no section of the Maker's domains would be unguarded, Valen readied his heavy flail and charged ahead to deal with the – hopefully – last obstacle...

... And was abruptly brought to a halt by the sight of the huge, brilliant figure that stood squared in front of the door.

"Mithril! A mithril golem! Devil's Bane won't even be able to scratch that thing!" He screamed with a note of rage and hopelessness in his voice.

But Yria was already falling into spell casting mode, a brilliant orb of white hot flames growing steadily between her hands.

"Valen!" She warned, and shot the fireball forwards.

The tiefling ducked out of the way with unusual agility, and came back around holding his weapon defensively, the chain untangled and the spiked ball at its end swaying dangerously. He peered at the clearing smoke and growled in frustration.

"It's absorbed the spell! Not even a scratch!"

"I wasn't aiming at it! Come on, I say!"

The sorceress barreled past him into the heated area, clutching a staff Valen had never seen before. When she was close enough to the massive golem, it sent a punch her way. Valen thought that she would be crushed into pulp – which provoked him some ambivalent feelings that surprised him into non motion for a split second. Sure it'd be good to get rid of the distrusted surfacer, but... could he endure hurting the Seer so?

His momentary doubt soon proved to be irrelevant, though. The fisted hand of the construct just missed: it seemed to soar past her – through her – as she went into a forward roll before springing to her feet again and regaining her fleeing speed.

Valen shook his head and charged after her, doing his best to avoid or parry the hits of the golem. Just as he stopped an arm-numbing punch with the handle of his flail, he saw what the target of her spell had been: the door the guardian had guarded had been disintegrated of its hinges, and the young girl was going through the gap head first.

The warrior followed.

After tumbling down two flights of stony stairs, both human and tiefling stood in a lightless corridor, paying close attention and trying to listen to the construct they had left behind. A few tense moments later, when it was obvious that it hadn't followed them, they started to relax. Yria smiled, panting softly for the excitement and the run. Then she looked up at the slumped form leaning against the opposite wall of the corridor.

"Valen... Can I ask you something?

He straightened up and carefully set his flail in its harness at his hip as he arched one fiery red eyebrow. Yria decided to take that as a yes.

"What is a Devil's Bane?"

Valen snorted, and his right hand subconsciously caressed the handle of his weapon. Yria gave a low chuckle.

"Your weapon? Oh my, why do all warriors, regardless of the species, have their weapons in such a high regard? It is but a piece of worked iron, you know."

"Not every weapon has a name. Only the worthy ones", said Valen, defensively. "Besides, it's not a matter of fighters. Important items have names. For example, what is the name of that quarterstaff you clutch so desperately? And talking about it, how come I've never seen it before?"

"Staff?"

He gave her a look that clearly said that he felt cheated and that he didn't like it one bit.

"... ... Spellstaff?" She added with a hopeful look. He just shook his head.

"You haven't answered my second question regarding the item", he pointed out.

She merely smiled and reached behind with both hands – while she spoke next, the staff disappeared again without a trace.

"What can I say...? I am a resourceful woman."

"Resourceful, indeed." He ran his gauntleted hand through his hair, pushing it back behind his horns. "How did you know the golem wouldn't follow us down here?"

"I didn't know it. I gambled."

"..."

Yria pushed away from the corridor wall and moved onwards, patting the tiefling on the upper arm as she went. Still marveling at the audacity of her move, he followed close behind, ready to face whatever it was behind the closed door that stood between them and the lower level of the Maker's Tower.

Well, perhaps not whatever.

Certainly, neither Valen nor Yria were ready to witness how two bands of golems tried to mope the floor with each other.

They watched in an amazed stupor how about a dozen flesh golems crashed against about a dozen bronze golems, and how the two groups proceeded to annihilate the numbers of the other group.

By the time the short and violent fight was over, just two scraped bronze golems stood. Yria and Valen exchanged a look, and the tall warrior nodded. He lunged forward, swinging his heavy flail – Devil's Bane – in a powerful arch and cutting down one of the golems just as they came at him. He twisted his shoulders and used the momentum of the spiked head bouncing against the bronze chest of the golem to add strength to his own spin, and hit the second golem square in the head. He completed the arch then, and, reversing his grip on the weapon, turned the last opponent into a scrap of metal.

Yria clapped faintly.

"Well done. We will go that way first, okay?" she said, pointing to the left-hand corridor. Valen nodded his consent.

A few corridors later, they realized that they had found the sentient golems. Yria craned her neck up, squinting her eyes to look into the face of the one named Agahz.

"So the Maker's gone." She said.

"Yes", came the cavernous answer in the not-quite-alive voice of the demon flesh golem.

"And you are the Maker's High Priest."

Again, "Yes."

"And you want us to kill this Ferron rebel fellow, and in exchange you'll send battle golems to help me fight against my very own rebel?"

Valen shuffled uncomfortably at her back, looking nervously to the score or so of flesh golems that studied them from the shadows of the dungeon-like room, drinking in Yria's every word. Then, the otherworldly voice again:

"Yes."

The sorceress sighed.

"Alright."

Valen looked surprised. Yria just shrugged, and led the way out of Agahz's lair, towards the Ferron's fellow lair.

Their good luck seemed to be returning, for the sentient golems didn't attack them. They passed the flesh golems in stoic silence and, when they found a party of bronze golems, they actually offered to take them to Ferron's presence to parlay.

"So you seek freedom." said Yria, pinching the bridge of her nose and summing up the hour long conversation she had just held with Ferron, the rebel leader.

"Yes." The metallic baritone voice answered.

"And you only decided you wanted to be free three hundred years after your master disappeared. No, wait... I don't really need to know the answer to that. Your problem is that you're unable to attain freedom without the Power Source, right?"

"... Right."

"And the power source is Agahz's."

"It is."

"I think I can see where this is going."

"And will you help us?"

"Will you help _us_ in exchange?"

Half an hour later, Yria fell to her knees, a couple of drops of scarlet blood marring her dry lips. Her breathing was labored, and she held her bruised side protectively with an arm. All around her, deep vibrant voices cried out in relief and happiness – how could a golem show those emotions was well beyond Yria's concern. She was smiling.

Valen wiped the sweat of his forehead, and saw the fallen form of his companion. He frowned and walked up to her. Laying a hand tentatively on her shoulder, she helped her to her feet.

"I believe I owe you an apology."

"Why?" She looked up at him from behind the curtain of her bangs, and took a shaky step back.

"You were asked to destroy Ferron. Instead, you listened to him and you helped him to achieve freedom... the greatest goal of all. Perhaps... perhaps you..." Valen was cut short and frowned when he saw that her features had gone serious for a moment. "What's wrong?"

"Well... Freedom was not my motivation here." Yria shrugged and then grinned broadly back at the tiefling. "It's just that I hate rotting flesh golems. _And _bronze golems are awfully resistant to being fireballed. Come on, we still have to find the Maker's rooms... perhaps Ferron will be grateful enough to help out." She winked as she walked past him, avoiding carefully the charred remains of the flesh golem sentient clan.

Indeed, Ferron had been grateful enough. He had explained the way to the inner chambers, and had told them how the golems had never been able to seek out the Maker because of the traps that laid in the way.

Looking ahead, Valen thought they probably meant this one.

Two twin pillars were set at the sides of a huge, square platform. In each corner, a mirror was angled so that it reflected the center of the figure. Beyond the platform, twin mithril golems stood guard over the last door.

The tiefling frowned as he examined the arcane scripts on the floor, the pillars and the mirrors. He knew that the trap was there, but couldn't really see it. He turned towards his partner.

"Do you know how to disable it?"

Yria beckoned for him to walk back away from the trap, and when he joined her, she showed him a small, semispherical artifact.

"Why would we want to disable it without using it first?"

Valen looked puzzled. Yria put the artifact on the floor and tapped it whispering a few words that escaped the hearing of the tiefling. Then it started to glow, and when Yria looked back to the inquisitive warrior, instead of explaining herself, she just pointed ahead.

Valen followed the line of her finger... and saw the two mithril golems walking straight up to them.

He tensed up, ready to meet the impossible challenge, but the sorceress just chuckled. As the two constructs reached the center of the square, they were held by a field of magical energy by the mirrors. Purplish glowing power started to inch up the twin pillars, lighting up the arcane scriptures, nearing the tips slowly but inexorably...

"If I were you, I'd close my eyes" said the girl.

Valen followed the suggestion, and only dared to peer out again when the awful noise of metal grinding against metal died out.

The remnants of magical energy made the square platform slightly more illuminated, and in the afterglow of the trap he could see that the four mirrors had shattered beyond repair. He traded a look with Yria.

"There you are; the trap is disabled now" she said.

"Another gamble?"

"No" she had the decency to look sheepish. "I read it. Single use trap."

"Oh. And what is that artifact you used...?"

"Hey, resourceful woman, remember? Let's go, there's a wizard's sanctum to loot"

"... To loot?"

"I meant: to _investigate_."

Yria pushed the final door open to reveal the marvels of the old sage... and felt that perhaps, she should have given it some time to rest before going in.

"... So... you are the Maker, I take it?"

The floating, glowing dwarven skull didn't bother to answer. It sent a storm of magic missiles their way.

The sorceress jumped clear to the side, producing her staff in mid-air. The missiles, though, changed their route and tracked her down. She uttered a command word and the purplish balls of energy faded into nothing inches before hitting her. She looked to Valen.

"What are you waiting for!? Charge it!"

Valen didn't need to be told twice; he pulled Devil's Bane free and attempted to hit the malevolent skull with an upwards arch.

The head of his flail hit the magical field surrounding the creature as if it was a stone wall, barely scratching the powerful undead.

Knowing the danger of the fight he was in, he took the incident in stride, twisted his upper torso to add momentum to the impact as he came in again, this time from high to the left of the floating mark.

The sockets of the demilich glowed a shade of red, and as his flail connected with its target Valen felt the acute pain of endless droplets of acid biting the flesh of his arms through the layers of leather and steel of this armor.

He recoiled, growling and stunned at the sudden outburst of pain.

The Maker opened its jaw to throw out yet another spell, but its concentration broke when a volley of flaming arrows hit it from the flank.

Its attention shifted to a point behind Valen, and with a flare of magical power, it conjured up a cone of freezing cold and cutting shards of ice that lacerated Valen's armor and that sent Yria tumbling down to the floor.

"Valen! Keep it busy, come on!"

But Valen barely heard the sorceress' shout. The demon within was free, and when the warrior started hitting the Maker repeatedly, it delighted in the acid that bit the tiefling's body, attacking again and again with renewed passion.

The demon only receded when Valen's chest took the brunt of a lightening discharge which sent him down and skidding a few feet back on the floor. Sanity only returned to the outsider's eyes in time to feel the painful cramps convulsing his body, the metallic taste of his own blood as he bit off the tip of his tongue; and to see a cackling death looming above him.

But death never came.

Ripping reality itself, cutting through both the material and the astral plane, came a blade of jagged edges so black that looking at it felt like looking at the very essence of nothingness.

The blade went past the magical defenses of the demilich as if they were nothing but a soft cotton tunic. It kept going, breaching the energy that linked the very soul of the Maker to the skull, severing its link to undeath.

With an ear-shattering screech and a blast of wind, the Maker was forever gone.

"... Valen? Are you... well, yourself?"

"Yeah. Are you okay?"

"Of course. Do get up and grab anything valuable that you can see, please."

Valen gathered all of his discipline and commanded his badly wounded and aching body into motion. He straightened up, staggering, and looked around, methodically taking thick arcane volumes and piling them into the bag of holding that Yria had given him before starting the trip.

Yria herself, half frozen and covered in deep cuts from the ice shards, managed to crawl to the Maker's desk and to pry open its drawers. Quickly, she pulled the few rings and necklaces she found there into her own bag. She also grabbed the notes scattered atop the desk, thinking that they might be worth something.

"Ready?" asked the warrior then.

She nodded, and stumbled to where Valen stood. The tiefling managed to catch her, and half walking, half dragging her, they made their way out of the dungeon.

When they reached Cavallas and his boat, Yria could have sworn that there was humor in the creature's voice.

"Do you still wish to visit Shaori's Fell now, surfacer?"

Yria even gave the boatman a nasty look.

"Most amusing. All the way back to the Seer now, please."


	5. Dancing with drow

A/N: _Here's chapter five. It might seem a bit rushed; if that's the case I apologize. __Exam's week, what else can I say. Still, let me know what you think of the action - as always. And as always, I'll just shut up and let the story begin. _

* * *

**Dancing with drow**

If Yria Ingerd had known that there was a male watching over her, perhaps she would not have tossed and turned around so much, she would not have grunted in such un-feminine-like ways, and she would not have slept on sprawled as a squashed frog.

Then again, probably she would have.

As a matter of fact, when she woke up, opening a heavy eyelid, she didn't look one bit embarrassed. She did look a bit pained, her head feeling as if she'd been hammering it against the wall for the last twelve hours – or worse, as if Deekin had been singing the Doom Song for the last twelve hours. She felt the need to communicate this fact.

"Ouch..."

A dark, slender figure unfolded itself, rising from the chair it had been sitting on, and drew near to the bed. Though Yria registered the presence and the movement, she didn't feel like they required any response on her part.

"I trust you are feeling well? The Seer had anticipated that you would most likely wake up sooner", said the figure, speaking a lilted accented common. "You have been gone for almost two cycles."

"I have done that, have I?" Yria attempted to gather herself and to crawl out of bed, realizing that she was unlikely to be granted more rest. "I'd like to see how long she would've been out, you know."

The male remained stoic.

"I understand that it was Master Valen taking the brunt of the action, and he has barely rested at all. Surely you understand the Seer's concern when you blacked out and no amount of healing energy seemed to be able to bring you back."

That one did the trick, and had Yria completely awake and huffing in no time.

"_Master_ Valen took the brunt of the action? Did he, now? Did he?" she managed to untangle herself from the white linen sheets, and jumped to her feet. Belatedly, she realized she was only wearing a borrowed, white linen nightshirt. She decided to huff some more. "Where is my stuff, anyway? What is it with drow and taking away my stuff? I want my stuff back. Now. "

She finished by crossing her arms, and somehow either the tirade or the stance or a combination of both made a small white smile break into the sharp obsidian features of the drow. He gave a curt nod by way of a salute.

"But of course. Everything is right here", he stepped away, motioning for a long table pushed up against the far wall of the bedroom, where a large amount of what seemed to be junk was carefully laid out in display. "Quite a number of interesting trinkets you have there, if I may say so."

Yria allowed herself to be pacified by the familiar sight, and brushed past the other on her way to the table. She picked up a red magnifying glass mounted on a golden handle, examined it carefully looking for possible damages, and laid it down on the table again. Then she looked back to the drow.

"Yeah, they are", she said, pensively. "And valuable. And anyway, who are you?"

"I apologize for my rudeness. I am Commander Imloth, at your service", the dark elf stiffened and bowed low.

Yria looked blankly at him.

"Commander Imloth? Aren't you a bit too important to be babysitting the sleeping surfacer?"

Imloth relaxed again when he saw that there'd not been any offence taken, and shrugged – or at least, he seemed to do so... if watched under the right light, that is.

"Valen's training the recruits now: he will be much harder on them than I'd ever be. The Seer wanted you to be informed of the allies the Valsharess has gathered as soon as you were back on your feet. Nathyrra refused to do the task, for some reason I cannot fathom. And", Imloth smiled slyly, "it was quite enlightening to see the savior of Lith My'athar performing the dangerous and extreme activity known as bed climbing."

Yria had to do a double-take.

"Was that a joke?" she smiled widely. "My, my, drow do have a sense of humor, albeit a wicked one. Who would have thought?"

Imloth snorted and turned to the table.

"Shall I help you to put your items back into the bags of holding? We took them out to search for the sentient golem's, Ferron's, token of good faith."

Yria frowned, and then smiled. Sweetly.

"Bags of holding? Oh, that shall not be necessary... You see, _Deekin_ couldn't come to the isle with me, so he offered to take my things to the market. For trading, you know. Well, and the stuff we brought from Undermountain too, of course: I haven't had the time to get rid of that yet. But I could still use the help... you wouldn't have a handy sac, right?"

The market had been... a revelation to Yria. She had discovered, to her utmost shame, that she was rivaled in her chosen field of expertise, namely appraising goods.

Since a great deal of what she had in her possession were magical trinkets, she had gone to the one wizard who was in business, a dark elf who seemed to think too highly of himself and who introduced himself as Gulhrys. She had made the mistake of showing interest in a couple of wands, because the spells they had stored made them exotic wares indeed, and from that point on she'd had to fight over the price of every item, to the last copper.

After bartering a few things, she had been forced to admit defeat: that elf was good, and, though she was enjoying herself immensely, she had a Valsharess to kill, a geas to remove, and lots of treasure to uncover and she could not waste her time. She had bid goodbye to the mage, and would have told Deekin to just go to the temple and keep her items safe till she was back to handle them, were it not for the fact that Deekin didn't look tired enough of carrying overstuffed bags and sacs just yet.

Yria had given the situation some thought, and then she had wandered over to a quite interesting merchant post. Armor and weaponry was carefully displayed, and an anvil glowed under the light pouring out of a forge. It looked like a smithy all right, but the young sorceress had felt the twinge of magics at work. Intrigued, she had approached the lone dark elf who seemed to be in charge of the place. Surprisingly enough, he had smiled, and although he had proved to be impossible to cheat on the prices, he had also been fair enough in his offers and not too much later Yria had gotten rid of two enhanced chainmails, several longswords of drow manufacture, and a lovely enchanted double axe, and she was being talked into improving the spellstaff.

"You know", she sighed as she handed over the item for the elf to add something or other that was - according to him - just the thing she needed, "you are a damn good merchant."

The elf smiled wryly as he ran his deft fingers along the staff, examining it and finding the best place to imbue the new magic into it.

"I do what I can to survive, Mistress", he said. "Say, this thing is heavily enchanted already. Where's it from?"

"You mean you cannot add your own enchantment?"

"Of course I can. Nice attempt at sidestepping the question, Mistress", he said, curtly.

"And it almost worked, too. Name's Yria, by the way."

The drow gave her an odd look.

"I know, Mistress. The Seer's been talking about your coming for what might amount to weeks. That's why we all speak your common tongue."

Yria shifted a bit uncomfortably.

"What I meant is, I'd appreciate it if you addressed me just as Yria and if you told me your name in exchange."

"Oh. I apologize. It shan't happen again, Mistress Yria. My name is Rizolvir", said the elf, looking slightly embarrassed and turning away towards the forge.

"That whole Mistress thing is inbuilt? You are not going to start calling me Boss anytime soon, right?" Yria muttered just loud enough, but the elf didn't hear her – or made as if he hadn't.

The sorceress found herself staring dumbfounded at Rizolvir not a moment later. It was beautiful. Yria had seen what forging was all about – after all, she was a curious person and she used to be so bored in her younger days – and she had always thought it a work of muscle. This was something entirely new: the weaving and treading of power into matter by sheer will. As she became mesmerized by the low humming of arcane power flowing around, she swore that she would learn how to it. If she could imbue her spells into her own gadgets, what kind of a challenge would defeat her?

None.

She would have spent all her energies in observing Rizolvir and learning from him, but she was abruptly knocked to the side.

Blinking furiously, she turned around to see half a dozen elves arguing quite irately. She was about to move away and let them do each other in, but then she thought that probably, the whole savior business meant that she should intervene.

Just as she took a step forwards to ask what was going on, a gleaming sword was produced by one of the elves, and voices started getting colder while one side sneered in disdain and the other growled in outrage.

Yria thought then that she wasn't being paid to protect them from each other, just to protect them against the Valsharess. Being cut into pieces by her supposed allies was, according to her, not covered in her current contract.

Wisely, she stepped back twice as quickly as she had come forth, and sank in an unnoticeable corner behind the displayed wares.

The street fight was over as suddenly as it had started, and the girl breathed a sigh of relief when the rowdy males parted with no bloodshed. She turned to the forge again then, and saw Rizolvir standing by her side, her staff in hand and a deep frown in place.

He noticed her staring and handed the item over.

"Mistress Yria."

"Thank you, Rizolvir", said she. "I'll be even more thankful if you can tell me what that was about."

The drow had to think twice for her whispered words to register, but then he just shrugged; his countenance was somber when he whispered back.

"House Maeviir. They don't like the Seer much... and they don't believe there's a chance to win the oncoming battle, which makes some of us wonder why Matron Maeviir is supporting the fight in the first place..."

"... What are you implying?"

Rizolvir's eyes darted to the sides, making sure there was nobody listening, and his voice dropped even lower, to a barely audible mumble.

"Look, I am no Maeviir member. I shouldn't have said as much as I have. I cannot offer you more answers. But if you are intent on finding them, perhaps you should talk to House Maeviir's only surviving daughter, Zesyyr. In their common house." He gave her a small smile and briskly walked away.

The cycle was not over yet when Yria Ingerd was walking past the gates into House Maeviir.

She was going to kill the Matron.

When she had left the forge, she had indeed gone to have a chat with Zessyr. The haughty drow had proposed a joint venture: She wanted Yria to kill her mother, Matron Myrune, and to hand House Maeviir over to her; in exchange, she had offered 20,000 gold pieces. Yria had rocked back on her heels, and informed her that she was no killer – and she had no intention of becoming one for some lousy coins. Zessyr had said that Myrune would turn on them at the end, because she was desperate and preferred subjugation to destruction. Yria had said that she didn't care too much for a traitor's word. Yria had walked out of the building, and had started to the temple of Lolth without a backwards glance.

She would have never taken the job if she hadn't run into Valen.

He had been coolly civilized. She had made a comment about the demilich. He had turned icy. Then, she had told him not to shift through her things ever again. He had brought up the issue of trust – or rather, of distrust. She had answered with some witty comeback about trusting horned males.

And then she had seen it. A patrol of grim looking, battered drow walking across the square, carrying the corpse of a comrade with them.

Yria wouldn't have witnessed the passing of the cortège if she had gone into the building. She wouldn't have seen one of the elves take a detour to report to Imloth – who was training with his troops in the open area in front of the city's barracks – while the others took the mangled obsidian body inside. She wouldn't have followed suit, jogging up to the now concerned Imloth and asking what had happened.

But she had.

Thus, she had learned that the small patrol had been doing a routine expedition of an usually quiet area when a score or so of duergar had engaged them. The dwarfs had been accompanied by no less than ten drow elite warriors, and before they had discovered the small scouting group and engaged it, they seemed to have been exploring the Dark River environs.

Searching for a way to cross it? Did the Valsharess know of the rebel's moves?

Yria had thought about the merchants she had met while in the Isle of the Maker, but if they acted on the Valsharess behalf surely they'd not have allowed them to enter the place, grab whatever they wanted, and crawl out again.

Then she had turned her attention to Zessyr's, and, mostly, Rizolvir's words. Information was not withheld in Lith My'athar: if that Matron was indeed a traitor, then the encounter hadn't been per chance.

Yria Ingerd had turned around and stormed to Maeviir's public house.

This time, she would have accepted the job even if Valen hadn't shouted after her to stay out of drow politics.

Matron Myrune was slim, graceful, and full of contempt. When Yria approached her, she didn't deign to acknowledge her presence: instead, she asked the male kneeling at her feet why such filth had been allowed into her house.

The male cowered at her feet – it was Tebimar, the sorceress was sure. Zessyr had warned her about the Weapons Master of House Maeviir before giving her the ring that would open the doors to the Matron for her. The young girl appraised him while he scrambled to his feet and rounded on her like a viper, demanding to know why she dared to bother the Matron.

Yria smiled her most innocent and genuine smile.

"Why, to kill her, of course!"

Matron Myrune turned out to be also weak.

When Zessyr took control of the household in the aftermath of the former Matron's death, Yria was still smiling the same smile. She also did something extremely odd:

She refused payment.

"Just remember how easily your mother, her partner _and_ her guards fell. If you ever feel like caving in to the Valsharess' pressure, well, think about me." With a roguish wink, the sorceress turned and sauntered out of the house.

When she met Valen in Lolth's temple, he was there along with Imloth, Nathyrra and the Seer. They all looked worried, but Yria just shrugged under their scrutiny.

"The Valsharess knows", the Seer broke the silence.

"About me and about the golem's promised help? Yes, she does. By now, I bet she also knows that her agent is dead. We are no longer in shadows for her, I guess."

Imloth's brow furrowed.

"Her agent?"

"Matron Myrune", Yria nodded. Then, she looked around at the four people gathered in front of her. "So... what now?"


	6. Future markets

A/N: _Next chapter is here: it brings a lot of things about! Characterization, the next big adventure, some dialogue and some scenes that are completely Yria. Hope you like it. As always, your thoughts are welcome. _

* * *

**Future Markets**

Four pairs of unblinking, unbelieving eyes stared out at Yria.

The Seer sat down and sighed deeply, pinching the bridge of her nose. Imloth looked shocked. Valen doubted whether he should laugh or kill the surfacer; he settled into snorting. Nathyrra seethed, her eyes dangerously narrowed.

"Well? What are you looking at? Do we have a plan or not?"

"I told you not to take part in drow politics. You know nothing of their customs. Of their cunning demeanor! Of their ruthlessness! How could you take such a job, when the Seer, when the whole Lith My'atar depends on you?" Valen growled.

Yria's smirk froze, and she sighed.

"Do I have to spell it out for you?" she looked at the four figures in front of her. "Gosh, there's three cunning ruthless drow who cannot put their heads together to figure out my actions? And you, Valen? A tiefling must not be all that naive, surely!" Silence. "Oh well. Come on, think a little. The Valsharess knows we're moving. Why else would she take an interest in the river just now?"

"That proves nothing! Nothing at all! There're a hundred reasons, including sheer chance, which could have turned out like that!" Valen didn't allow himself to be pacified, and even took a step ahead.

Yria thought that he was going to actually hit her before Imloth spoke up.

"Are you implying that I've had a spy under my nose unnoticed for this long?"

The girl held up her hands, trying to stop the oncoming ire.

"Calm down! Commander, the spy was not under your nose. It was within Maeviir House, and from what little I've seen in the camp that is something entirely different. You don't even train your troops together! And I know that the attack on the patrol was no proof." She smiled again, brightly, "That was the whole point!"

Both Imloth and Valen made to comment, but the Seer stopped them by raising a hand.

"I do not see this situation any clearer than you do, my friends. However, the goddess cannot be wrong in her vision and she prophesized Yria as the Valsharess' doom. We must believe in the goddess, and so we must believe in her. Let her explain her actions, and perhaps this confidence shall be proved worthy."

"Okay, let me go step by step. House Maeviir might have betrayed us or might have been loyal, but it cannot be denied that her troops and her nobles were being a bit of a pain in the behind; correct?" She waited till she got nods of confirmation from her audience. "We have the certainty that the new Matron will be cooperative. And that is good."

"And just why are you so certain?" Nathyrra asked.

Yria gave her a look, as if she didn't believe that she had to explain a plot to a drow, and her countenance became serious.

"Because, dear Nathyrra, she has seen that _I_ need no proof. Perhaps what she said was true and she is, and will remain, devoted to the cause. Or perhaps it was just cunning drow politics, as Valen here points out. My actions might have given confidence to an ally, or not. Whatever House Maeviir as a whole thinks is unimportant to me. Zessyr, now... What she has seen is pretty much the same thing as Valen: a reckless, crazy surfacer who needs little to no incitement to pounce on an 'ally'. And that is good because while the Valsharess is marching on us, _I_ am already here. The new Matron will make sure that the loyalties of House Maeviir are clear and undivided now. Just in case."

The chamber went silent once again, as Yria's words died out and everybody assimilated them. When Imloth spoke up, his tone was barely above that of a whisper.

"Thought like a drow", he said. "I am not sure if that is a compliment or not, though."

"I'll take it as one", said Yria graciously, "and now, can we please move on with our Defeat The Evil Drow plan?"

"Do you still wish to acquire more support?" Valen broke his silence. "Do you still wish to visit Shaori's Fell now?"

Yria fought with herself. Visibly. She wanted to explore the mysterious city and get her hands on whatever artifact had produced such a place overnight... But all of her senses screamed against the idea. If they were running short of time, it would be more logical to try to weaken the enemy now. After all, what use did she have for trinkets if she was going to be dead a mere tenday after getting them? Her survival chances, the rebel's survival chances, increased if they tried to take out some support from the mighty foe.

After an interminable moment's struggle, her brain gained the battle over her greed.

"Nathyrra? What is your report after scouting the city's environs?"

The sorceress had taken a night to rest at Lith My'athar, and the first hour of the next cycle had seen the eclectic group walking out the gates of the city. She had taken Deekin and Valen with her. Nathyrra had escorted them part of the way, but when they had faced the long corridor leading to their destination, she had stayed behind in the main cave to keep on scouting.

No amount of stealth could have served the drow against the beholders, and so it had been understood by them all that the assassin would be more useful to Imloth and his intelligence gathering than to the mission at hand.

When the human and her two companions had emerged at the end of the long winding tunnel, they had found a chasm separating them from the gaping mouth of a cave. Only a small pillar of shinning crafted quartz had clued them in to the fact that, indeed, the cave was populated.

Yria crept forwards to the edge of the chasm and stared hard at the pillar.

After a while, she realized that she could see rudely carved runes and certain marks in the polished surface. Frowning in concentration, she punched one of the runes and cringed, almost expecting a discharge.

None came.

She looked again, and saw how the marks had moved. She smiled.

"I think I've got it", she turned to Valen and Deekin. "See these marks here? They can be moved... by punching these runes here like this... And now if we get them in a certain position... probably in a straight line... something like this... and then if we activate them by..."

Valen caught her hand before she could give her suspicions the final test.

"Do you actually know what you're doing?"

"Ah... Nope."

"Thought so", the tiefling sighed. "Wait a moment. I need to talk to you... before you risk the abrupt end of our lives by trial and error usage of beholderkin artifacts."

Yria gave a longing look to said artifact, but acquiesced by turning away from it and facing the planar.

"Sure. You want to make a confession of your undying love for me, just in case we're about to die?"

Valen, who had been trying to gather his own thoughts, gave her a withering look. Yria held up her hands, and smiled roguishly, as if saying '_geez, you have no sense of humor'_, but eventually allowed the man space to say whatever he needed to say.

"I want..." the tiefling started, caught himself short, and tried again. "I need to know how you did it. Dealing with Matron Maeviir, I mean. You've proven to be quite the weakling, no offence meant, so I can't see how you dispatched her and her weapons master just like that... And", he gave her a stern glare, "if you give me any of that 'resourceful woman' crap this time..."

Yria chuckled at that, fighting to keep her chortles low, and tilted her head to the side.

"Well... it does sound much better if I don't explain the small details, you know. But since you asked, I'll let you know that Myrune was poorly prepared to fend off a physical attack. And that Tebimar could not hit me if he could not see me."

"_You_ are ill fitted to _perform_ a physical attack, too."

Yria took the jab in stride and shrugged, still smiling widely.

"True. Unfortunately for her, fire elementals are wicked with the whole clawing-your-innards-out-of-you business."

"So... a fire elemental? ... Must have been an old one."

"Yeah."

"And... Tebimar?"

"Well..." Yria hid her eyes behind her bangs, and tried to look contrite. She didn't manage to pull it off. "He was so used to jumping and obeying every female-issued order, that he couldn't help but die when I told him to do just so."

Valen shivered slightly, not letting it show. This child could command someone to die? And more worrisome: she spoke of it as if it was the most casual thing to do. Perhaps it was a pity that she hadn't died in the assault to the Isle of the Maker... He'd have to keep a closer eye on her.

"One last question..." he said, trying to shake off the uncomfortable feeling of being observed and blaming the weirdo he had as a partner for it. "Why didn't you accept the payment, if you've even gotten money from the Seer herself to do what you have to do anyway?"

Yria looked taken aback. She fumbled, stuttered, and attempted to turn back to the pillar to activate it. Valen caught her shoulder and forced her to look at him. She was worrying her lower lip, and wouldn't meet his eyes. After the silence stretched for a few awkward heartbeats, she answered.

"It was part of my plan, of course. This way, she knows that I don't even need someone to employ me in order to remove her if she proves treacherous as her mother did."

Valen let her go with a frown, and thought that it had indeed been a plan worthy of the drow. Because she had answered the truth, hadn't she?

Had she?

The sorceress' fingers grazed the marks, and the quartz started pulsating with a deep purplish energy. Ever so slowly, a bridge – no, the shadow of a bridge – started unfolding itself and stretching all the way across the chasm, straight to the cave's entrance.

Yria let out the breath she didn't know she had been holding.

"Umm... Boss?"

"Yeah, Deekin?"

"Why do we needs to cross huge shadowy translucent bridge, Boss? Why cannot we go and fights with the... the octopuses-headed evil guys, Boss?"

"Translucent? I didn't know kobolds knew such big words", muttered Valen.

"Deekin is big kobold bard, you knows. Deekin writes a whole epic book with Boss in it before, and sells bunch of bunches of copies. Deekin obviously needs to know big words! But that does not answer Deekin's question, Boss."

"It's because we can fight the oct- the Mind Flayers with the help of the golems, but we have no way to fight the beholders: they are a more immediate treat to us now", Yria threw a nasty look Valen's way for picking on the poor kobold and her out her hand for the scaly bard to take. "Come on, we will cross the bridge so quickly you won't even have time to realize your feet have left solid ground."

Deekin held onto her hand and clutched his small harp with the other.

"Boss? That last comment didn't help Deekin _at all_, Boss."

The trio started crossing the force field, not noticing how some deep shadows had deeper shades in them.

Upon reaching their destination, they realized that beyond the cave entrance there was no such a thing as a cave. There was a passage. Eventual rock outcrops served as walls here and there, and the uneven floor went from five scarce feet wide to about a dozen, but mostly it was flanked by empty, dark nothing; a warm, unnatural breeze blew from the depths lining the way to the beholder's lair, bringing a dusty scent with it.

Somehow, the passage felt alien and barren even in such a barren, alien place as the Underdark.

Yria looked around.

"Just what do these beholders behold, anyway?"

Valen glanced her way to see if she actually expected an answer. Apparently she did.

"The name has more to do with how many eyes they have than with what use they put them to."

"Oh." The sorceress gave it some thought, then shrugged and stepped forward. "Makes sense. There's nothing to _see_ here, much less to behold..."

When Valen entered the next beholder room, he was growing increasingly wary. They had already barged through three rooms and had run along as many corridors, but they had found nothing. Never mind how much he hated it; he was feeling the need to agree with the currently whining sorceress at his back. There was something extremely odd about the whole situation, other than the oppressive air and the slimy, cylindrical corridors. Unless the hive was so big that the outer chambers were not necessary used...

He turned to share this new insight with Yria when they heard Deekin's raspy voice calling out in a rather loud whisper.

"Boss? You might wants to see this, Boss."

Planar and human shared a look and carefully crept to the dark corner or the room from where Deekin's voice came.

There, hidden and terrified, was a... a kobold?

Yria frowned and knelt by Deekin's side, thinking back to the old days at Hilltop and of how she had handled the kobold tribe. She started talking in a soothing voice.

"Hey there, scaly one. Don't be afraid, we're no beholders, see? We got legs. We don't want to hurt you". The small kobold seemed slightly less frantic, and Yria moved on to the next stage. "Okay, what is your name? Come on, you can tell me... We won't let the..."

"Boss? Deekin thinks she's not gonna answer, Boss."

Yria tried to keep calm, so as not to scare the small creature before her who seemed to trust her about as far as it could fling her – taking size into account, not much.

"I know Deekin. I'm trying though, because there's some useful information we could be getting, you know?"

"Ah... No, you sees, Boss... Deekin thinks she won't answer because she's gots no tongue to answers with..."

Yria paled and looked back at the huge watery eyes of the scrawny kobold.

"What?"

The sorceress had no way to measure time, and so she didn't really know how long it was from the moment they found the kobold slave to the moment in which she sent a roaring ball of flames through a door into the private meeting of a delegation from the Valsharess, but she thought that it had not been a short enough time.

Probably thanks to Deekin's presence, they had managed to be led to the slave's leader: a single kobold out of hundreds who still kept its tongue and its ability to communicate. With the bard acting as an interpreter, they had learnt of the day-to-day cruelty of the beholder masters. They had also learnt why most of the hive was deep into the labyrinth of tunnels, all of them gathered around their eye tyrant: a delegation of dark elves had come.

The Valsharess was scared, and was moving her pawns to be able to strike quickly.

Deekin had persuaded the kobold slaves to sketch the tunnels in the dirt for them, and to mark where the drow and where the eye tyrant were. Then, Yria had given them a few minutes to gather around far away from the area, in as discreet a manner as possible.

While the scaly creatures scurried off to warn their kin that they should hide without drawing attention, she had waited going over her spells and which ones she should use.

Then, when the slave leader and looked anxiously at her and nodded his small head emphatically, she had sprung into action, rushing along the corridors towards the drow's room. Valen, having the blank of the Seer's tribulations so close at hand, hadn't even needed encouragement. Even Deekin, peeved by the evil ways of the beholders towards their slaves, had followed suit.

When the sorceress had reached the door to the delegation's chambers, she had forgotten her reviewed spells and her plans. She had just wanted to blast them into oblivion.

This explained why she fell back into her signature spell, and why she poured so much power into it that when she let it fly, the whole room beyond the melted door was rendered an inferno.

Heat waves flew out the door gap carrying black smoke with them, and a cacophony of screams greeted Valen when he made to enter. Sweat broke in his body, and he had to close his eyes against the stinging dryness as he plunged. He knew before opening them that no amount of spell resistance could have saved the gathered drow.

Sure enough, only a figure stood: a Red Sister, surely – the elite group serving the Valsharess. Half her face was scorched beyond recognition, all her snowy hair gone, and her body was being wracked by pain spasms. When Valen swung his flail at her, he felt more like a farmer putting a sheep out of its misery than like a warrior felling a foe.

However, he barely had time to consider the damage that had been done to the surroundings, as Yria urged him forward.

"Come on! Surely all that screaming put them on alert now! We must not give them time to prepare."

And so the tiefling rushed forth, sticking to the route outlined to them by the slaves. He passed a few doors and took the left fork of a bifurcation, and charged the door at the end of that one corridor with his armored shoulder.

He quickly assessed the new room – indeed, it seemed to be the antechamber they were seeking – and leaped to the side, keeping his back to the wall. Yria came in hot on his heels, arcane words flowing freely from her lips in a rushed litany. Her right hand had produced five flaming rays and had sent them into one of the creatures before the other three had truly realized that the intruders were there.

The aberrations turned they main, huge central eyes their way and started casting they own destructive magic. An array of magic missiles was sent Valen's way, but somehow they disappeared before hitting their mark. With a set look on his face, Deekin stuffed away his magical Horn or Dispelling, pulled out his light crossbow and neatly put a bolt into the eye of the beholder, all in one fluid movement.

The tiefling lunged forward, refusing to stop to think about the kobold's unexpected display and catching the distracted creature with a left to right swing that mashed the socket of the floating eye. Unable to use its magic anymore, it screeched and attempted to bite the warrior. Valen ducked and came up behind it, swinging his flail again at the back of the beholder. Gore spilled out of the wound, and the battered thing tried to fly away; but it was so weak that when a second bold imbedded itself into the remains of its central eye, its carcass floundered down.

Mere fractions of a minute later, a second beholder fell, sliced to pieces by a floating, unmanned glittering sword.

The sorceress was so deep in concentration that she didn't even move when the last aberration conjured up yet another ray attack to send her way. She kept on whispering her spell, as if she hadn't been hit – Valen had to wonder if she had actually absorbed the attack – and pointed the sword to its next target.

The fiery blade dissolved into thin air a second later. The evading maneuver of the beholder had brought it straight in line for a formidable hit by Devil's Bane spiked head.

Yria grinned at Valen.

"That wasn't so difficult"

The tiefling rolled his eyes.

"That was four beholders. Wait till we face the rest of the hive and the eye tyrant."

"... ... Spoilsport."

Indeed, the ensuing battle had not been easy. Valen was still wondering how they had survived even as he tried to bandage Yria's right shoulder.

"There's really no need for all that fuss", she said, batting his hands away as he tried to secure his work. "It is not so big a wound, it's not as if I were going to bleed out, is it?"

The sorceress had been bitten by one of the creatures. Luckily, it hadn't been the enormous eye tyrant, but still the sharp teeth had left quite deep cuts into her flesh. Valen had to admire her for her will power if nothing else: she had been able to finish the spell she had been chanting, even with half of her upper body trapped in the mouth of the aberration.

"Stop moving", he chastised her. "You could lose the ability to use the arm if I don't tie this properly."

It wasn't necessarily true, but it worked marvels at stopping her complaints. When he was done, he sat back on his heels and searched her face. He tossed some words around in his head, deciding on how to thank her for her impressive job of dispelling the beholder's rays almost as quickly as they could produce them and before they could hit him. After all, once deprived of their magic, even if it was just for the blink of an eye, the beholders had been quick work for his skill in wielding the heavy flail. That had been one of the main reasons they were alive and kicking, albeit badly beaten, after the battle.

The other reason had been the absurd architectural technique of the beholders themselves, which had provided them with plenty of dead angles to hide before and after every attack.

His gratitude, however, got lost on the way from his brain to his mouth when a certain kobold interrupted him.

"Boss? There's nothing valuable to be found here, Boss."

Yria threw her head back and stared at the ceiling, as if trying not to lose her composure.

"Dang. Dang, dang, and one hundred thousand times dang. You mean that I underwent this whole ordeal for nothing at all? You can't be serious!"

"Well... perhaps nice drows had some shiny nice stuff. But Boss charred them and now everything is charred and black and... and _useless_, Boss!" Deekin whined.

Yria breathed deeply to calm herself.

It didn't work. She tried it again a few times. Finally, she staggered to her feet and dusted off her clothes.

"Well... well, okay. So there's no treasure. I killed off a whole hive of beholders for nothing. That's not that bad, is it? It means that these things won't side with the Valsharess, so they won't bite my ass in the final battle..."

"Because they already did it, Boss?"

"Yeah... I mean, no! No, because _I_ already kicked _theirs_. And now... now let's head back to Lith My'athar, right? We'll regroup, and rest... and chose our next target more wisely..."

Valen stepped up to her, looking genuinely concerned.

"Are you okay?"

"Yeah", she said, taking a few clumsy steps. "Yeah, I'll be fine; I just need a decent night's sleep. Let's just go back, okay?"

Valen nodded and the trio slowly made their way out of the beholder's hole. When they reached the passage, however, he had the prickly sensation of being observed. He was going to comment on it when he felt Yria relax almost forcibly and give a spring to her step that he knew she lacked the energy to maintain for long. Deekin moved himself by her side, as if seeking her protection – or as if ready to help her if her fake strength went away. Valen tensed, and although he was worried he couldn't say that he was surprised when an elite drow patrol detached itself from the shadows.

They had been ambushed.

"So", the leader, a dangerous looking male, addressed them in perfect common, "you are the one who is bothering our Mistress so, Yria Ingerd." He snorted. "I must confess, I was expecting something more impressive."

Yria's face had dropped any hint of weariness, and the act was so good that Valen had to think if she'd been faking her own distress earlier. She was smiling her childish smile, the one that, for all its innocence, managed to send shivers up the spines of friends and foes alike.

"Truly! But I think I am quite impressive, if I may say so myself."

The elf's handsome face twisted in an expression of disgust.

"You are a fool to admit your identity, Yria Ingerd. Prepare to be squashed like the bug you are."

The sorceress held up her hands, her smile never faltering.

"Must we? But what is the hurry?"

"You have defied the Valsharess long enough, and you have proved to be a nuisance by stopping our forces from traveling through Undermountain. You shall pay for that; you shall be destroyed."

Yria's face took a wistful look.

"That is a pity. And such a handsome face you have, too." The drow's eyebrows shot up in his forehead, and the grimace wavered in his features for a moment. A clang signaled the fall of Devil's Bane from Valen's limp grasp. "I would not obliterate it."

"You cannot prevail against the drow." The warrior managed to recover admirably.

"And yet, as you point out, I've defeated drow in Undermountain. I've also destroyed a demilich, the most powerful undead creature. I have just killed a Red Sister and a whole hive of beholders. And let's not talk about the exposing and disposing of the traitor of Lith My'athat..." Yria tapped her fingertip against her chin, thoughtful. "I believe we're an even match." Then the girl clapped her hands excitedly, making the drow jump in surprise and getting half a dozen crossbows aimed her way. "Oh, I just know what we need here!"

A second drow, an outraged mage by the looks of his robes, moved out of the shadows close to his leader.

"Eldath!"

The warrior cut him short holding up a hand. His expression hadn't changed, but a trained observed could see a spark of curiosity in the depths of his red eyes.

"Silence, mage", he sneered. "Go on, surfacer. What do we need, other than your quick demise?"

"Stop talking about my death already, please! It wouldn't do at all! No, what we need here is... a future market!"

"Future... market..."

"Why, yes! See, right now we could fight each other to death, could we not? But as we've already ascertained, we're a rather even match and so I could die or you could die. The only advantage my demise would bring to you is a place of honor in the final assault to Lith My'athar – in the first assault line. Don't look at me like that, we both know how the Valsharess thinks of a male no matter how perfect a warrior – or how powerful a mage – he is. On the other hand, I've already said that I'm quite adverse to the idea of erasing you from the world of living: I enjoy too much just looking at you. So what we must do is settle a future market: we both get a little less than our best expectations in order to avoid fulfilling our worst expectations!"

The drow had a small smirk in place.

"Interesting. Is it a surface concept?"

"... ... It is an Yria Ingerd concept."

"State your proposal."

"Obviously, we don't fight. You relinquish your place as honorific fodder, and I relinquish your company. You win your life now and in the final assault. I win my life and the chance to find you again."

"You imply that I would commit treason against my Mistress?"

The sorceress shrugged.

"It was unfortunate timing; when you got here there was nothing but the smoking remains of the beholder hive."

The drow stared hard at her, gauging her power in an open challenge. Yria withstood his gaze, relaxed and smiling, the head cocked to the side, appraising him in return. He looked quickly to a scout placed behind the human, and the veteran elf made a decisive sign with his hand.

The hive was indeed destroyed.

The leader of the patrol nodded stiffly and took a step back into the shadows.

"I find this... future markets to be most interesting. We shall meet again, Yria Ingerd."

"I hope the circumstances shall be different... Eldath." Yria waved as the elite squad retreated, disappearing as quickly as they had appeared.

The sorceress waited until she felt observed no more. Then she waited a few more minutes. Still without moving a muscle from her relaxed, defying, careless pose, she asked in a whisper:

"Valen? ... Are they gone?"

"Did you... what did you just do? Intimidate a drow weapon master? _Sweet-talk_ him?"

"Are they gone?"

"Yes, I think they are completely gone". He picked Devil's Bane up and carefully placed it on its harness at his hip. "I don't know how, but they are gone..."

"Good."

All pretence of energy and poise fled Yria as she collapsed in a ragged heap, utterly unconscious.


	7. The thrills and spills of a craft

A/N: _I'm sorry it took so long to update, and the result is quite short too... Oh well, this chapter has been pain to write. First I tried to do something else entirely, then I wanted to do something much longer but then it turned a real behemoth of a chapter... Whew. I hope you guys like this short piece: it has a lot of dialogue, and it deals with character development and interaction. It is a break from the endless quests of HotU – well, let me know what you think of this piece. Hope it wasn't too off the mark! _

**The t****hrills and spills of a craft**

According to Yria Ingerd, the whole being knocked out business was getting old.

She was starting to get pissed, and when she came back to her senses in the cold, damp floor of the beholder's chasm she felt the need to remark on the fact.

"Why? Why in the Abyss do I have to keep on being pushed into unconsciousness all the time?"

It was a rhetorical question, but Valen seemed not to notice the fact. He sat back on his heels and wrung dry the cloth he had been using to refresh the sorceress' face and smirked before answering.

"Must be because you're a weakling. I honestly don't know how you can keep on fainting again and again. The bite is serious, but not that bad..."

Yria propped herself up on her elbows, an angry frown in place.

"I am no weakling! I killed the damn demilich, the Maeviir spy and the Valsharess' delegation and I kept the beholders' magic at bay for you to dispatch them! It's not as if you'd have lasted much without me in there! Hells, an elite drow patrol backed out from a fight with me! You saw it!"

The sheer amount and greatness of her claims, accomplished in such a short time, could have been enough to inspire awe and respect in many hearts. Unfortunately, she broke the effect by swaying even while in her sitting position, her eyes almost rolling back into her head as weariness came over her yet again. Valen reached out and attempted to hold her steady by the arm, worriedly.

"Leave the Lower Planes out of the conversation and stay here, girl."

"I am here," she said, forcefully. "I... Damn, I don't know how I am going to do this if I keep on blacking out. My stamina is going ever worse... It didn't happen so often, before."

Valen didn't know much of magic and couldn't understand, much less explain, how the increasing power the sorceress channeled required more and more energy to be cast and how the more magic she poured into her spells, the more exhausted she was to be afterwards. However, he did know a few things about young recruits fighting on the Blood Wars and landing more hits than they should rationally be able to.

"Have you ever tried boots of striding?"

And thus Yria acquired her first pair of boots of striding. She bought them once in Lith My'athar, as soon as the Seer fixed her wounds and deemed her healthy enough to leave the temple and after an invigorating haggling with the merchant High Wizard Gulhrys. She put them on immediately after paying for them, even though she considered that the deep red leather clashed horribly with the rest of her attire, and her eyes opened in surprise.

She felt the burst of renewed energy to be almost tangible, filling her limbs and clearing her head, freeing her of all the drowsiness that had settled in her mind. The boots might be tacky or not, but they sure were one of the best things ever to be invented. She wondered why she had never heard of them before, and made a mental note to thank Valen later.

At that moment, however, what she actually wanted was to take full advantage of the new magic item – no, not wanted: she had to test them and see just up to what point the boots were boosting her stamina. The Valsharess might be on the way, but she needed a couple days off since it would be most unwise to venture out without knowing what could and couldn't be done.

Not even the Seer would find fault in such a sound reasoning.

She wandered the city getting a feel for the new footwear, walking, skidding and hopping now and then, and generally drawing a lot of attention, even if she paid it no mind. Eventually, though, her steps found some purpose, whether consciously or not, and the sorceress found herself heading to Rizolvir's forge.

The drow was bent over his anvil, his eyes narrowed and his deft fingers tracing complicated patterns along the blade resting before him. The sorceress remained a small distance away, carefully studying his movements but allowing him space to finish his work without breaking his concentration. She was reminded of the last time she'd seen the elven smith working, and she made up her mind to pick up that line of thought. She waited patiently until he straightened up, lying the blade carefully to the side, and then approached the dark elf.

"Hey, Rizolvir."

"Yria", the drow gave her a small smile as he cleaned his hands on his sooth-covered breeches. "It is good to see you again. How can I help you?"

"And you, too. It is even better to see that you've dropped the whole Mistress business... made me feel old", she said, smiling in turn.

The drow snorted, unable to conceive such a human feeling old, before answering again, his smile still in place and an impish gleam in his eyes.

"You haven't lost your touch detouring questions, Yria. In any case, I am glad to have the chance to talk to you again. It was pleasant to see that you took your role seriously enough to look into Maeviir House."

The sorceress shrugged.

"Oh well... I try. You seem to be the only one who appreciates the effort, though... everybody else practically jumped at my throat for it", she said, sounding dejected.

Rizolvir frowned at that, shaking his head.

"Sometimes, the followers of the Dark Maiden are so intent on escaping drow society that they refuse to do what must be done. Myrune was a traitor, and she met a fitting end. In eliminating her, whatever the means necessary, you improved our chances at survival and I thank you."

Yria would have liked to keep the conversation going, but she saw a chance to profit too good to bypass.

"You could thank me by showing me some of the tricks of your art."

"I am afraid I am not able to do such a thing. It is too complex and we do not have the time."

"Oh, come on, you don't have to teach me all the details, just the basic knowledge, like a beginners' guide to magic item crafting or something like that."

"I do not think it would be responsible, sorry. There is too much risk involved in imbuing a weapon, too many factors that could go wrong."

"We don't have to imbue anything important, just a simple thing or two..."

Rizolvir stared at her for a long while.

"... Yria? You do know that puppy eyes do not help when dealing with drow, right?"

"... Not even a little bit?"

The smith ran his fingers through his messy grayish hair, while sighing deeply and averting his eyes.

"The Seer would have my skin if she learnt that I have kept you from your mission."

"I cannot go on with my mission yet. I am testing the limits of my new boots; it'd be most unwise to rush."

"Master Valen..."

"Valen won't dare contradict the Seer." Which, of course, was true.

"... Come into the shop", he said, giving in. "I guess there is no harm in showing you the ropes of the job... briefly."

He grabbed an average sword as he disappeared into the small cubicle that functioned as his shop when he didn't need forge or anvil and Yria happily followed him in, complying.

Neither of them thought of the outside world for the next four hours and a half.

When Yria's hands finally conveyed the sharpening enchantment into the blade in an appropriate way much, much later, Rizolvir smiled; his white teeth a stark contrast against his dirty black face.

"There! It was not so difficult, was it? Everything else, from this point on, is just a matter of finesse."

Yria laughed out loud, careless and happy as if no Valsharess was looming on the horizon. Then, a little more seriously, she looked at the pile of discarded blades on the corner.

"I did it! But... well, I'm sorry it took me so many destroyed swords to get it right."

"It is not a problem", he shrugged and smiled. "I am sure I will be able to craft something out of them."

Yria smiled right back, and then remembered something the drow had said earlier on. As she already had had her chance to learn, she thought it'd be a good moment to pursue that particular conversation.

"Hey Rizolvir... You said something about the Seer's followers before. Are you not one of them?"

"No, I am just a drow. I have got no goodly aspirations, although I did come to this settlement as part of the Seer's entourage."

Yria tilted her head to the side, entering curious mode immediately.

"How so? Why did you come with her if you are not with her? I thought everyone but Maeviir followed her?"

The drow smith seemed surprised at her attentiveness, and shifted uncomfortably before attempting a rather insecure smile.

"It is a most uninteresting story, Mistress. However, if you would deign to hear it, perhaps I may dare to suggest a visit to the local bar?"

The sorceress smiled widely to reassure the drow, and entwined her skinny arm with his muscular one.

"I'd love that! But, Rizolvir?" She pointed at their joined arms. "I am no drow. Drop the 'mistress' and relax already, I got no whip."

After her most recent visit to the temple, where she'd had to stay for a while, she thought she understood where the awkward treatment given to her by some males was coming from.

The smith decided not to point out that what she could do with her spells was far worse than what any whip could accomplish, and allowed himself a slightly nervous chuckle instead.

"Of course, Yria. Old habits do not die, I assume. I apologize."

"Apology accepted! Now, let's go. Where is that bar?"

"Near the training grounds of the Maeviir troops", he said, starting in that direction and noting with a small amount of pride that the young sorceress was still clinging to his arm. "You mentioned that the Seer was not happy about your actions regarding House Maeviir, did you not?", he added.

"Oh, yeah, that's right. I had to explain myself and give excuses for hours until they decided that they could live with my actions", she pouted.

Rizolvir nodded.

"Please, allow me this chance to show you how your actions were most needed."

Yria looked at him inquisitively, but he only smiled mysteriously in turn, signaling with his head towards the city's dwellers that were about their business all around the pair.

There was no tension; no one was acting contemptuous anymore. When they walked past the Maeviir sergeant, who was training his men, the male drow saluted her. No sneer, just respect.

As they approached the bar, Yria glimpsed a pair of Maeviir soldiers playing dice with some followers of the Seer and she felt the urge to laugh. Now, it was clear in which side the fallen House stood, wasn't it? She had been right all along: Zesyyr was more worried about a crazy Yria Ingerd than about a far away power-hungry Valsharess. Exhilarated, she looked to the smith and smiled widely at him; he held her gaze, hoping it would transmit his gratefulness for giving the rebels a better chance.

As they parted upon reaching the bar to sit on opposite stools at a table, she squeezed his arm paying no mind to the curious stares coming from the other drow patrons.

They had barely sat when the bartender brought two drinks to rest in front of them.

"On the house", he said, smiling politely and bowing briefly before taking his leave.

Yria chuckled and had to wonder if she still was in Lith My'athar. She decided against questioning the situation, though: her health seemed to be an issue no more, she had learned how to craft magic weapons and she was drinking for free. Her spirits couldn't lift any higher. She took a sip of her glass and leaned across the table.

"So, about that story of yours..."


	8. The lesser evil

A/N: _Okay, the update comes a couple days later than it should... Sorry. I blame midterm chaotic nature. About the chapter, I don't really know how to describe it this time: read on to find out and leave your opinion about what exactly goes on here ;) Without further ado, on with the show!_

* * *

**The lesser evil**

The damp cavern was as eerily silent as ever, and everything seemed cold to the tiefling's darkvision. As far as the warrior was concerned, the three of them were the only warm spots moving across boulder outcrops and rocky slides, and he was not comfortable with it: it was one of the very few traits he shared with the drow in general: the deep dislike of the hostile lonely lands below the lands.

This particular time, however, his discomfort was coming from a very distinct and different source: namely, the sorceress who was walking on ahead. Well, not walking on. As a matter of fact, that was one of the very reasons he was feeling so wary – Yria was sauntering through the Underdark. Not walking, not creeping, but sauntering.

Under normal circumstances, the fact would prove nothing but how irresponsible she was, how mistaken the Seer was in thinking that she was a savior. But then, Valen's line of thought came to the second source of his worries: the sorceress was not only sauntering, but she was also extremely happy. Her good mood could be felt almost like a tangible aura, and somehow this was even worse than seeing her in the worst of battle.

The weathered warrior was positive that such a huge, innocent smile and such wickedly gleaming eyes were breaking some cosmic law just by coexisting.

Still, what had risen the live and cry in Valen's brain had been Deekin. The kobold usually had an admiring look plastered on his scaly face, or else had it buried deep in his stack of papers, jotting down something or other while humming his infamous Doom Song.

To see the diminutive bard eyeing the sorceress suspiciously had been almost too much to handle.

Still, it had taken the tiefling a good while to gather his resolve, and even longer to bring himself to actually tap the kobold upon his shoulder, bracing himself to undergo one of the weird conversations the bard used to carry.

As per usual, said conversation had left him feeling quite dumb, but what he discovered made him feel... uneasy, to say the least. The bard was nonplussed because he didn't understand the actions of his Boss, and that was certainly bad. The bard was worried because he didn't approve of said actions, and that was even worse.

Much to his chagrin, though, Valen couldn't help but agree with Deekin's concerns. He hadn't known the sorceress for that long, but he knew that nobody should face a mind flayer settlement with such readiness, and he knew that a woman – or rather, a girl – who fought over every copper as fiercely as a crag cat shouldn't be sporting such a smile after parting with a powerful magic artifact _for free_, unless she'd had a fit of insanity.

...Which brought Valen full circle in his thoughts, all the way back to the sheer insanity of sauntering around the Underdark.

The tiefling found out that pin pointing the sources of his discomfort made nothing to alleviate it: quite the opposite. He was feeling as wary as ever after all his thinking, the difference was just that he'd run out of time to corner the sorceress and demand a rightful behavior from her.

The entrance to Zorvark'Mur was looming ahead of them by the time he resolved to do something.

Yria stopped just before crossing the threshold of the cave, tilting her head ever so slightly to the side. She threw a look at him over her shoulder, winking roguishly and pointing ahead. The weapon master covered the few steps separating them and heard the heavy thumps of booted feet drawing closer. He growled low in his throat: it had been about five days since the last fight, in the beholder's hive, and even longer since the demon attained full reign. Subconsciously, his hand caressed Devil's Bane handle.

"I shall not hide", he mumbled through gritted teeth.

Yria snorted in response.

"Of course not! Not that you could if you wanted, mind you", she gave him an appraising look. "The gods know you're way too big..."

The planar had time to fix her with a glare before a small party of duergar made their way out of the cave. He tensed ready to spring into action as soon as he saw them, but Yria quickly forestalled his movements and gracefully – or as gracefully as she could ever manage – put herself in the lead, bowing flamboyantly to the surprised gray dwarves, and he had to wrestle his fighting instincts back in check.

"Well met, fellow slave traders!"

The tiefling jumped in surprise at hearing her, and the demon took the chance to try to take over under the guise of worry for the Seer. Fortunately for Valen, he knew the demon's tricks by heart – heck, they were _his_ own tricks – and forced the primal rage back to its prison. Unfortunately, though, Valen agreed with the demon in some basic aspects, and thus the distrust stayed, stronger than ever.

"Ye here for buyin'?", was saying one of the duergar, apparently the leader.

"Why, of course! Zorvak'Mur is reputed as the very best trading post this side of the Underdark!", answered Yria, smiling pleasantly.

The dwarf, however, gave her a suspicious look.

"Ye don't look like ye know what yer doin'. Nobody comes here without bein' prepared", he pointed out, knocking his helmet wistfully.

"But I am prepared too!", she said easily, waggling her index finger to show a inexpensive-looking iron ring. Then, she added, still smiling, "then again... Oh, I wouldn't want to be rude! If it is some kind of local tradition, perhaps I should buy one of those hideous helms..."

"Helm or no helm, me wonders what a surfacer is doin' here o' all places", a second dwarf suddenly piped in.

Yria looked genuinely contrite when she answered.

"Ah well, what can I say... life in the Night Above is not so easy for us anymore... Gotta go where the market goes, right?"

Valen narrowed his cerulean eyes at her as the duergar roared with malicious laughter.

"So what are ye gonna buy?", the first dwarf asked, a dark glint in his eye.

"This or that. Can't really decide before seeing the stock", answered the sorceress, shrugging as if she was discussing the weather.

"An' I'm guessin' that that demon o' yers gonna help ye with the new thralls? 'Cause suren the scaly rat ain't worth much."

Valen was holding himself in check just barely, but hearing the dwarf refer to him as a demon serving a slaver was a bit too much. With a growl, he grabbed Yria by a shoulder, spinning her around to face him and effectively cutting off the conversation.

"I am not a filthy slaver! Freedom is not something to deal with..."

The girl looked back over her shoulder, to the stunned dwarfs who were now starting to react and to reach for their weapons. Hurriedly, she turned back to the tiefling, only to find him glaring at her like he was about to crush her.

"Listen, I guess I cannot talk you into being a slave within the next five seconds, right?"

Valen's only answer was a louder growl as his grip on her shoulder tightened.

"I'll take that as a no", she sighed. "Okay, have it your way then."

Suddenly, the sorceress was holding a staff – one that what was left of Valen's mind recognized as the Spellstaff. She half wriggled out of Valen's grip, and half threw herself to the side as the warrior leapt, swinging his flail wildly at the slavers party; and then she considered helping her partner. She decided against it, though, and shaking her head she uttered a word of command, calling for the power of the staff.

The duergar who was charging her blinked in surprise when he was driven to the floor after hitting thin air, but he had little time to consider how his prey had disappeared under his nose because a spiked iron ball was flung against his head with demonic strength.

Yria Ingerd was many things, but she wasn't as stupid as sometimes people believed her to be. She remained in the Ethereal plane long after the quick combat finished, her arms crossed over her chest while she scrutinized the blurry scene that took place in the Prime. Only when Valen was done hitting rocks and roaring out loud, and when the Spellstaff's own spell was about to be drained anyway, did she come out of her sanctuary.

The five grey dwarves were mashed beyond recognition, and Devil's Bane head was imbedded into the wall. The tiefling had let go of the weapon and it seemed that he had gone on punching the rock with his bare hands for a while, until he had calmed down enough.

Well, calmed down enough... Yria almost felt the urge to take a step back when he fixed his angry, barely contained demonic gaze on her. Almost. After all... she _was_ Yria Ingerd, was she not?

She put her right hand on her hip and cocked her head to the side, tilting her chin up and answering his challenging look with one of her own.

"Well?" She asked. "Are you happy now? A perfectly good ruse that would have allowed us to enter the city and gather information has been completely spoiled."

Probably challenging Valen at his worst was not a bright idea. Then again, they say that Fate smiles upon the daring...

"You'd act as a slaver just because there is profit to be found, wouldn't you?" The warrior's voice was strained, but his features were returning to normal ever so slowly.

"I'd never be a slaver. You see, there is a difference between 'acting as' and 'posing as'. The second option, while not really pleasant, would have granted us a decent disguise to approach whoever is in charge of this place relatively unnoticed and unmolested."

Valen took a deep breath and stood up, straightening himself. As the demon crawled back to its prison, he understood the truth of her words. Still, freedom was something he had forgone his whole life for, something he had fought for with almost greater passion than the Blood Wars battles. Freedom was what made him different from the demon. He looked down on his hands, bleeding from a thousand little cuts, and felt a pang of annoyance in the back of his head.

He sighed.

"You know, Yria, there is such a thing as discussing strategy and sharing ideas..."

Sensing the danger gone, the sorceress took a step forwards.

"I'll take that as an apology for being such a hothead," she said, banishing her staff from her left hand and reaching out to him. "Here, let me see those hands. We might as well fix them before walking in on the 'flayers."

The weapon master lowered his gaze, managing not to look sheepish in the process, and waited while she produced some healing supplies from her seemingly bottomless pouches.

"Uh... by the way, back to the strategies and the sharing of ideas... how are we going to enter Zorvark'Mur now? What's the plan?"

Yria looked up from his hands, a wicked smile plastered on her face and an impish glint in her eye.

"Why, I don't plan! After all, profit is to be found at the edge of disaster!"

The tiefling eyed her suspiciously.

"Whoever came up with that one?"

She gave him her most innocent, wide-eyed look.

"Me, of course!"

"Of course," he snorted. "Who else. I guess that explains a few things... like for example, why you never told me that you had items to deal with these creatures right up till the last moment..."

"Items? What items? I was hoping to mooch them funny helmets from the dwarves, but..."

The both of them looked down at the corpses of the duergar, and Yria arched an eyebrow. Valen cringed. There was nothing to be salvaged there. Perhaps he had overdone it a little... Then, the warrior's face scrunched up in confusion.

"But... the ring?"

"This one?" She said, holding up her finger. "Ah... nope, it has nothing to do with it. I was bluffing."

Examining the simple metal band, the tiefling just nodded.

"It does look useless... Cheap and rather poorly crafted."

"Hey now, I said that it doesn't help against the 'flayers, not that it was useles!"

"What does it do?" He asked, thinking himself very smart for creating the opportunity to do so.

"Ah well, if I told you it wouldn't be half as fun, would it?" She winked and with that, declared finished her healing work. "Come on, let's get going anyway. We don't want to be sleeping out here when there's a perfectly good city this close, right? Oh, and that reminds me... Deekin, you can stop hiding now!"

The raspy voice of the kobold came from the floor.

"You is sure, Boss?"

"Yep. We's... I mean, we _are_ going to enter that city and be on our way out real quick."

"Okays, Boss." The bard lifted his own invisibility spell and crawled out from under a rock. Valen noticed how the creature gave him a look that spoke volumes before getting ready to bring up the rear of the group – a task he seemed to excel in, for some reason the warrior couldn't fathom.

The small group reached the famous Illithid city fairly easy. The slavers tale, of course, didn't work; but somehow the creatures allowed the trio to pass without any hostile attempt: it turned out that the Elder Brain, the collective mind of Zorvark'Mur, was somehow expecting them. Because of this, after wandering the streets of the city for a while under the vigilant gaze of the ever silent Illithid, they became the first representatives of the lesser races to be allowed into the pond to talk with the gigantic brain.

Yria felt it prodding her mind carefully, almost politely, trying to find a way to communicate with something that had a concept of 'I'. When it finally addressed her, it was in a voice that was not a voice: it certainly was not heard, and the telepathic transmission was so alien that the sorceress caught no wind of it: one moment she was aware that the Elder Brain was silent, the next she knew it had spoken and she could remember its words, but she couldn't identify when the words actually came to her.

She shifted slightly uneasily and looked at her companions, wondering whether the Elder Brain was talking to them too, and what it was saying. Unfortunately, Valen's face was stoic as ever, and she had never been too good at reading Deekin's expressions.

She sighed and turned back to the Brain, because she felt it was rude to talk to it while giving it the cold shoulder... not that it could tell the difference, really, but... It gave her a certain sense of balance.

"So..." She spoke aloud, even if it was only to break the disturbing silence. "I understand you've heard of the Valsharess?"

The next words appeared in her head with a feeling of outrage.

_We have. We have heard of you, too. And of the ragtag drow village of Lith My'athar. _

"Ah... yes, well, I thought so. Ahem. I guess there's no chance you would, kind of, not support her, right?"

_We do not support her, individual creature. But no Illithid shall be destroyed for opposing her either, because we have not the power to do so. If that were to change, though... _

Yria felt her composure returning: this was something she could discuss. This was business.

"She wouldn't raid you if you retired your tactical help to her, you see. She'd lose to us, or be too worried about us to care about you."

_What you say makes no sense to us, individual. The one who calls herself Valsharess could prevail or be defeated with and without our assistance. You have no claim to affirm otherwise. _

"Okay, I'm just saying... The beholders won't side with her anymore. The undead hordes will disappear soon enough too. Then, our army of golems shall main her troops... and Lith My'athar is heavily fortified, so chances are that the rest of her forces will not make it out of the final battle. If you don't show up, well, she won't have the strength to take revenge."

_But perhaps she will. That is why we will no__t change our decision until we have a means to ensure our safety. A means that you, individual, are able to provide. _

Yria rocked back on her heels. She had the distinct feeling that she was not going to like the turn of the conversation.

"Do I? Pray, do tell what it is."

_I refer to the Mirror of All Seeing, individual. We know it is close... so close... if you recover it for us, we will be protected against the Valsharess and we will end the shameful servitude we are suffering. _

Yria's eyes opened wide. The Mirror of All Seeing. Close. She had read about its mythical powers... Her face took an all too familiar look as she asked her next questions.

"Where is it? How can I get it? What am I to expect to face while recovering it?"

Deekin, who heard the entire conversation in his head too, couldn't help but sigh. More work to do...

When the group left the pond and returned to the city proper, Yria seemed to be happy again.

"See? You just can't go about planning things," she explained to Valen while they walked the ever silent streets slowly, heading towards the exit. "We had planned to come here, persuade the mind flayers to hide under a rock instead of helping the Valsharess and then move on to see what's providing the undead troops to her army. Now, instead, we're going back to Lith My'athar, and then to that other isle Cavallas told us about to try and recover an ancient artifact..."

Valen stopped dead on his tracks, and frowned.

"How can you even consider helping the Illithid? To give them more power would be suicide! Besides, I thought that eliminating the undead was far more important than eliminating the 'flayers, on account of us having golems to deal with their psionic abilities."

Yria decided it would be best to leave out the fact that, if she wanted to eliminate the undead, it was because Imloth had mentioned vampires in his report and everybody knew that vampires liked to surround themselves in luxuries and riches much better than any Illithid ever would. Instead, she just shrugged.

"Well, we have Maeviir priestesses to deal with the undead anyway. And I'm not even considering handing the Mirror over to that oversized brain, mind you." Valen still didn't look convinced, so she pressed on. "Come on, Mirror of All Seeing... we could use it to know when, where and how the Valsharess is going to attack us! Surely you can see the tactical advantages!"

"So we're just going to walk away running after another magic object? Leaving Zorvark'Mur to attack us freely when the time comes, along with the undead and the duergar and the drow and the devils the Valsharess summons to her side...?"

"Ah... no, you see, Zorvark'Mur won't quite attack us... Has it ever occurred to you that it is the Elder Brain controlling all these thralls; and that there's dozens of thralls for each 'flayer?"

"What do you mean?"

"You will see. But hurry up; we want to get good seats to enjoy the show, so as to speak..."

Valen was about to complain when he felt it. The ground shook ever so slightly, and all activity seemed to cease in the city. The time felt frozen for an eternity, and then all of a sudden, it started to rush again as an Umber Hulk dropped the parcels it was carrying for its master and attacked it instead.

Zorvark'Mur slave force was awakening, and the mind flayers were too scared at the sudden silence of their Elder Brain to react in any coherent way to it.

Valen stopped staring when he felt Yria attempting to shake him by the upper arm. Somehow, she was holding her staff again.

"Hey! Don't stand like that in the middle of the street!"

The weapon master smiled in understanding of what had happened, all the while wondering how she had managed to provoke a delayed explosion to kill the overmind; then he nodded and pulled his heavy flail free, charging forward and joining the ranks of striving slaves. Yria stared after him, dumbfounded.

"I meant it as in, 'let's run for the exit before they notice us', not as in 'let's get ourselves killed'...Damn tiefling..."

She sighed and shook her head, but when an Illithid attempted to wrap its tentacles around the head of an unarmed dark elf, she fell into spellcasting mode and let a volley of fiery rays fly free.

"Oh well... I guess we can lend a hand here after all... There might be some decent treasure to be found in a trading city; right, Deekin?" She said, addressing her other companion.

The kobold nodded frantically, not bothering to lift his head from the bundle of parchments in which he was scribbling madly away. This was just what his epic novel needed: his Boss fighting gallantly against tyranny, fire and lightening raining in the middle of incredible magical displays... This was the stuff he could use to craft a legend: not his Boss covered in sweat and dirt in the middle of a forge joking and laughing as if the world was not on the line, and certainly not awkward farewells with insecure drow artisans... Deekin still hadn't managed to fit that scene into his book, and in all honesty he doubted he wanted to portray his beloved Boss giving away the powerful Enserric sword just because, since it'd make her look quite silly. The diminutive bard actually felt quite relieved that the Zorvark'Mur adventure had provided a new interesting heroic combat, and that he could stop worrying about how to write the previous events.

Now, if only he left out the part where she jumped into the fray screaming "for the loot!" and incidentally forgot to mention how she picked clean every corpse of anything glittering enough... Yes, he could make it sound suitably epic.


	9. Mirror mirror

A/N: _Okay, I am sorry beyond words for taking this long to update. I'd like to be able to blame the muse, but, shame on me, she has been behaving admirably. Granted, mostly she wanted me to write about the next leg of the journey and not about this particular part, but still. No, it's more likemy fault: once you accept a good excuse for not updating on time, you open the door for bad excuses. So I'll try to be back to regular: against the rain and the fire and the danger... I'll update! I hope. Anyway... This chapter is split on two, because it was way too long for comfort. There's a good fight, and a lot of characterisation: just how is Yria seen by the others? And also a small hint of personal development and of -tan, tan tan tan... - relationships! Review if you can see it... and review to tell me to work harder... and review to let me know your opinion on the fic, as always. Thanks for reading!_

* * *

**Mirror, mirror**

The Seer's personal rooms, well guarded within the Lolthian temple complex, were lighted with soft faery fire, to allow the reading of the various volumes that adorned their walls. The beautiful elven female was running a silvery brush along her thick mane, a daily ritual that helped her relax. Nathyrra sat at her feet, showing a casual countenance that she never allowed herself in public; just the barest frown of concern in her otherwise unmarred angular face let on to the fact that she was, indeed, discussing matters of a certain importance with the priestess.

"It's not that I don't trust Her vision, Mother Seer. Rightfully, I don't doubt Her instrument, either. Yria Ingerd has proven nothing if not useful up to now... but I am still weary."

"I know, Nathyrra," answered the older drow. "But you know better than anyone here that we must lay our faith on Eilistrey and Her wisdom. Besides, you have just said it: the surfacer is living up to expectations. Even to Valen's, and that's saying something, isn't it, my dear?"

Nathyrra allowed herself a grim smile when she recalled the scene of the proud weapon master admitting through gritted teeth that, yes, probably Yria Ingerd could be considered a key asset in all recent breakthroughs. She sighed.

"This situation might have been more bearable is our savior weren't so alien to us."

"We must not think of surfacers as alien if we wish to earn our place in the Night Above, Nathyrra," scolded the Seer.

"It's not that she's a surfacer," the assassin frowned and thought her words over before starting to voice her concerns. "It's that she's an Yria. She has no qualms when it comes down to dealing with drow. She treats the lowliest commoner as she treats the Matron Mother who owns this entire city. She walks around the streets of Lith My'athar, around the Underdark, and she doesn't look back over her shoulder; she doesn't stare apprehensively at the shadows waiting for an invisible enemy to pop into existence. She despises the games of the mind we drow play: when we weave nets and careful plans within plans, she comes like a charging rothé and stomps in our politics, even in our social order! The other day I saw her at Maeviir's bar, mixing with the most worthless males as if it was a surface tavern full of old friends! She's reckless, carefree, cheerful: you wouldn't guess we're at war by looking at her! And yet, it is with that same cheerfulness that she barged in a beholder hive and that she provoked a battle against an Illithid city; and it is with that recklessness that she talked one of the best Valsharess' commandoes out of a fight and that she's brought fifty odd former slaves to the city she's supposed to protect..."

Nathyrra shook her head, feeling at a loss. The Seer, however, listened to every single one of her words with a knowing smile in her face. When the younger female fell silent, the Seer finished combing her hair and turned to her, taking her chin in her hands in a reassuring gesture.

"The drow she escorted here from the destroyed Zorvark'Mur are our brothers and sisters: must we not be joyful, for they have been saved? And, after such a dark captivity, cannot we trust that they will indeed be faithful, if not to us then to freedom – and, in this case, aren't these two causes one and the same? And yes, she might have turned Lith My'athar upside down, but do our teachings not say that there's no such thing as worthless males, for we're all drow in need of guide and salvation? That the soul of a commoner and that of a Matron is, essentially, the same thing? Then, why do you criticize her, for accepting us as our creed says we are?"

Nathyrra blinked while digesting the Seer's words; then lowered her gaze and nodded both in defeat and in acceptance.

"You're right Mother Seer, of course. I just... I... I understand now."

"Good," the priestess nodded in turn and leant back on her chair. "Now, tell me: how is our battle plan evolving?"

"Favorably, Mother Seer," the assassin answered at once. "The new recruits – that is, the former Illithid slaves – seem to be all capable fighters, according to Imloth. He's put them to work with his own men already. By the way, the mixed exercises he's set up with House Maeviir's men seem to be working smoothly, too. On a similar note, Matron Zesyyr and her priestesses are working quite hard imbuing their blessings into the new sets of armor; and the smith must be working night and day if the speed at which he's producing weapons to equip our troops is any clue. As for Yria, she and Valen have just left. They were prepared to investigate one of the Dark River's islands, the one where an elven city appeared overnight. The sorceress believes that there they'll find a most useful artifact to help us."

"Very well, then. With the help of our goddess, when the time comes we will be prepared." Nathyrra smiled at the words of the Seer before standing up, bowing respectfully and retiring to her own rooms with a confident spring to her step.

When the door closed, the Seer's smiled faded slightly and she wrapped her thin arms around her torso. Her words had assuaged her lieutenant's fears; now, if only she could believe them too...

Far away from the Seer's camp, a certain sorceress sat huddled in a corner of Cavallas' small boat. The venomous waters of the Dark River flowed past whispering their secrets in a gurgling voice, but the girl paid them no attention whatsoever.

Yria Ingerd sat in a corner of Cavallas' boat, fighting down a furious blush.

Of course, to think of her reddened cheeks and of Valen sitting just a couple of feet to the left only worsened the situation.

She bit her lower lip and fingered the small silver charm that hung from her neck. The chain was quite simple, and the medallion itself was an oval of about an inch long, a spidery figure engraved in one side. A spider, of all things... Still, she genuinely liked the gift and thought it had been a touching detail. If only half of Lith My'athar hadn't witnessed the exchange, she'd feel much better. With any luck though, nobody but Deekin had really paid attention. She sighed and tucked the pendant inside her tunic, giving herself a few moments before emerging from behind the curtain of her bangs, chancing a glance to the left.

Valen was polishing Devil's Bane, blissfully oblivious to her embarrassment.

Yria let out the breath she didn't know she had been holding and allowed her confident self to snap into place again. She stretched and placed her crossed arms behind her head, leaning back comfortably – or as comfortably as anyone could get when sailing an almost sentient river of lethal waters.

"Hey, Valen," she said, smiling widely. "Do wake me up before we get there, uh?"

The weapon master lifted his sight from his task only for a moment, and he smirked on seeing the relaxed sorceress. He didn't bother to answer, though: her eyes were already closed anyway. He went back to oiling his flail's chain, but soon his mind was wandering. Vision or no vision, he thought, Yria was definitely unique.

The tiefling set his weapon aside for a moment, and pondered on whether this was a good thing or a bad thing.

She always acted on a whim, always keeping him on his toes. However, while at first he was always ready to act upon her treachery, now he found himself more often than not awaiting impatiently her latest burst of genius. The fact that said genius usually conveyed some high stake gamble and relied on luck rather than on preparation didn't bother him so much now, and he realized that he was starting to see her irresponsible behavior as liberating. He still was pretty sure that her recklessness made her dangerous to their cause, but after his latest outburst at the Illithid city he was quite positive that she would not betray them. After all, she _had_ attacked the trading post from within – an act which was both reckless and dangerous, indeed – but she had succeeded and she had freed the slaves from their mental chains.

She had also supported the sentient golems in their quest for independence from the Maker, and she had spared all the little kobold slaves from the beholder hive. Valen found himself thinking that, perhaps, they were not so different. He cocked his head to the side, and stared at her small, slightly scrawny form.

He reached out to her, telling himself that it was okay since they were quite close to their destination anyway.

His hand was still a good four inches away when the sorceress sat upright, eyes still closed, and vigorously jabbed her index finger in a random direction.

"You made me lose my purse; now prepare to receive my curse! Go and call upon your double; see if he can save your ass from trouble! Sorry to burst your bubble in a manner that's not so subtle, but I won't go until I see you buckle and Undermountain totally crumbles! Sayonara, so long, good bye and good luck! Worry not; your loot will be safe in my sack!"

Valen froze, and Yria sank back once she finished her tirade: the tiefling realized she had never woken up. He sighed and decidedly grabbed her shoulder, shaking her awake, with a curious frown creasing his brow.

Yria opened a heavy eyelid, and glared at the man, though he towered over her even while sitting down.

"You had to go and wake me up, hadn't you? Couldn't it wait?"

"You told me to wake you up," Valen smirked, gesturing towards the fast nearing isle that could be seen just at the border of their vision. Then, he took a more serious expression. "What were you dreaming of?"

Yria smiled teasingly.

"Now, now... what kind of question is that, dear Valen?"

The warrior rolled his eyes and stood up just as Cavallas maneuvered the boat into something resembling a safe, rocky natural port.

"Well, it's only logical that I ask after the poetry recital you just gave me," he deadpanned.

"Poetry?" Yria's cheeks flushed hot and she hid her eyes behind her hair in an almost reflexive gesture. "I don't know what you're talking about..."

It was Valen's turn to give her a weird smirk that was halfway between a sneer, a leer and a taunting smile and that was the closest he ever got to actually looking roguish.

"I really think that kobold of yours if rubbing off... a while longer and you'll be writing an epic poem on gold coins," he said, hopping onto dry land.

He completely missed the look of relief on Yria's face when she realized that he had just witnessed another one of her Halaster-dreams.

"Well, who knows?" she winked, joining him and starting the walk into the island. "If the royalties are good enough..."

The pair kept their friendly bantering while they carefully picked a path that would lead them into the island. They had been working together for a while now, and some kind of tacit reliance had evolved between them – even if they'd be caught dead before admitting it – and it showed in the ease in which they moved now.

Unfortunately, they also were far more relaxed than they'd been, say, in the Isle of the Maker, and thus Valen caught sight of the figure that was crouching in the shadows ahead just a split second too late.

He leaped to the side, grabbing the startled sorceress with him and finding partial cover behind a boulder. In the blink of an eye, Devil's Bane was in his hands and he was pushing forward, hoping against all odds that he could get to the scout before he raised the alarm.

As he rushed on, he failed to notice the second slender figure that detached itself from the shadows and that let fly one of the infamous drow darts.

The poisoned tip found an opening between his cuirass and his shoulder guard, biting deep into his flesh.

The tiefling barely noticed the impact but he felt the wave of drowsiness that assaulted his senses as the sleeping draught mixed with his blood. He growled and shook his head, fighting the tiredness back as he spun on his heel intent on hitting the second scout. His flail was neatly parried by a longsword, though, and he felt his limbs growing heavy. Knowing full well that if he fell asleep he was as good as dead, he yanked his weapon free, forcing an opening in his opponent, and punched through.

Granted, it was not exactly a display of weapon finesse, but the frail bones of the male elf broke easily under his armored knuckles, and the staggering drow gave him enough time to bring Devil's Bane into bearing again.

With the sickening snap of a broken neck, the spiked head of Valen's flail crashed against the side of the Valsharess' scout head.

Staggering, Valen turned around and looked for his next target, briefly wondering why the sorceress was not helping out. Of course, the momentary feeling of distrust passed his clogged mind, but he dismissed it without a second thought. Yes, she was weird, but if she truly wanted to kill them all, she wouldn't be going to such lengths to stop the Valsharess.

The tiefling warrior did admirably well ignoring the small voice in his head that was shouting at him something along the lines of, she's not doing it to destroy the Valsharess but to increase her personal fortune, but in a much more colorful way.

In any case, the answer to his question came soon enough, when he realized that Yria was no longer hiding behind the boulder. Neither was she fighting the second scout, who was just closing in on him, attempting to make the most of his drugged state. No, somehow she had moved forward, past their fray.

The Demon smirked, recognizing the tactics and applauding them.

After all, if there was no way to avoid being noticed, what was best than being noticed in an appropriately fashionable way? The young human had jumped straight into the camp of the enemy commando and had let a fireball fly free.

The agile drow evaded the inferno with various degrees of success, of course, but it managed to put them in a most uncomfortable position for dark elves anywhere: they were not attacking a disgraced House, they _were_ the disgraced House.

Valen didn't manage to take anything else in, because at that moment the blade of his opponent came in aiming to his gut. He sidestepped as best as he could and attempted to position himself even closer to the drow. The curved weapon of the drow managed to nick his side was he went, but the tiefling's elbow connected solidly with the other's torso, pushing him into a wider opening and making the nimble warrior lose his footing – and his breath – for just a second.

A second was all Valen really needed.

As the heavy metal head of this weapon hit true, he felt the demon tugging at its chains. In a way, he welcomed it because he knew that was the only way he could fight off the effects of the drow poison, but still the weapon master wrestled it. He was only too aware of the possible results if he lost it while he fought so close to Yria.

The sorceress had her SpellStaff in hand, of course, and she was casting taking no notice of the handful of enemies who rushed her. Her attention was focused on a single female, who was wearing the red and black uniform of a Red Sister. Yria could tell that the elf was trying to cast a rather impressive spell, but, gambling yet again, she chose not to counter: instead, she commanded the weave, tapping the channels she was most familiar with.

Six fiery rays of flame burst forth from her fingertips and her open palm, and flew straight to the chest of the dark elven female.

The Red Sister's smug grin was whipped off her face when her natural spell resistance was pierced, and the unexpected pain made her holler in agony.

Whatever spell she had been working on, it was lost.

Yria smiled and prepared to cast again. Unfortunately, the drow warriors were reacting and she had barely started to chant again when a wickedly looking blade attempted to remove her head from her shoulders.

Valen, who was running towards her after having dispatched his first opponents, shouted a warning that he knew would be too late...

And then the blade went on, seemingly through Yria, and she let a fireball fall to her feet.

Again, the drow were nonplussed when the spell proved to me more powerful than it should, shattering their innate defenses and burning their flesh. The small sorceress took the chance to jump clear of the fighters, seeking cover behind the charging Valen.

The tiefling noted how she had managed to escape her own inferno mostly unscathed, with only the crisp ends of her hair to prove that she had been engulfed by flames, but he didn't linger long on the realization and rushed the disoriented fighters, Devil's Bane leading the way.

Meanwhile, Yria went back to her original target: her eyes quickly scanned the fray, trying to locate the blasted Red Sister, for she was sure that the drow was not dead... yet. She failed to find her, though, because the other, another spellcaster, had surely thrown up some kind of invisibility barrier.

The effect was dissipated just when the burned, bloody elf barked the last words to a powerful spell. Yria swallowed a curse when she felt the burning bite of acid on her skin, and saw the flickers of flame dancing around Valen's silhouette.

The sorceress noticed how the drow female started going through a teleporting routine, apparently ready to flee and to leave the handful... the three males who still stood against Valen to cover her retreat, but she could do nothing to stop her: if she didn't attempt to get rid of the storm of vengeance convoked by the Red Sister, and did it quickly, both Valen and herself would end up fried when the spell picked up and the electrical discharges started.

Feeling helpless and not liking it one bit, Yria gathered her own power and discharged it aiming high over their heads, just as the damnable dark elven female became a blurry image prior to disappearing altogether. A small brilliant point of light shot out of her index finger and the thunderous sound it made masked the noise of Devil's Bane shattering the blade of a drow warrior and imbedding itself on his head.

The point of light got lost in the darkness that was the heart of the storm of vengeance, and then it exploded. The shockwave was enough to send both the remaining drow fighters and Yria herself tumbling down to the floor, but somehow Valen kept his footing, in spite of the poison and of his wounds.

The weapon master lunged forward, and both Valen and the demon stepped with all their remaining strength on the closest drow windpipe, which broke with a sickening sound.

The last dark elf rose to his feet a scant fraction of a second later, his twin blades brought to bear, but his eyes showed that he knew what his fate was going to be.

Completely alone and deserted by his own, the remaining fighter faced his enemies.

He barely felt the searing pain burning through his chest before his skull went _crack_, and everything turned black.

And then, there was silence.

It was only broken by Valen's ragged breath, and then by a soft thud as Yria let herself fall to the ground. The SpellStaff dismissed, the young sorceress slumped and tried to regain her composure, but she didn't move until she felt the tiefling moving closer to her.

Looking up into his eyes, where cool cerulean was still trying to control demonic red, she managed to put a smile in place.

"We were almost late!" she took the hand the warrior was silently offering her, and got to her feet again. "We must investigate what is going on at once... it won't do to let that damned elf get away with out price," she said.

But not even she could put much energy into it. She glanced to the side, and placed a hand on Valen's forearm, seeking both to get his attention and to keep her own head from spinning.

"We'll rest and regroup first, of course. Can't go with such a drowsy warrior, now, can we?" she teased, winking mischievously.

Valen – real, total Valen; any trace of the demon long suppressed – snorted at this and started to look around for someplace safe to rest.

"Of course. As if a used-up sorceress was much good..."

"Heh..."

Yria attempted to pinch his arm, failed miserably when she tried to find an opening in his armor, and then allowed herself to be gently guided to a pretty well-guarded rock outcrop.

Keeping in mind that time was indeed gold, and that they needed to rest and be on their way as quickly as possible, they started pulling out healing supplies and other necessary stuff.

Both of them carefully avoided any thoughts referring to their comfortable banter and almost perfect teamwork as they settled for a few hours' rest.


	10. Dream of a mirror

Yria's face was paler than ever

A/N: _Okay, I said I'd update through anything thrown my way... I guess I miscalculated. I couldn't update through car crashes, broken hands or obliterated laptops. Fortunately – or unfortunately, depending on wether you like the story or not – I am back on track, and ready to work again. All the work I had was lost, though, so I had to write this chapter anew... I tried to do a lot of things with it, and I'm not sure if I pulled it off... You tell me. On a separate note, is being funny with me and does not let me edit things –documents, my profile... – so apologies for how this might look. _

**D****ream of a mirror**

Valen was angry. In spite of that, though, he admitted – through gritted teeth, that is – that he shouldn't have called her a coward. Firstly, because he knew, deep down, that she wasn't one. And secondly, because it was a sure way to get her all riled up... Yes, it was bound to cause the kind of glare that was being glared his way at that precise moment. He sighed. He was still pissed, and he still believed that her actions had been all but appropriate, but soon it became obvious to the weapon master that if he wanted to move on and to get things done, he had to acquiesce, apologize and forget.

And that, for a being as proud as him, was no easy feat.

Valen took a deep breath and forced his brain to think of the Seer. Of course, the ancient drow would say that he was being irrational. And, truth be told, a part of him agreed. Unfortunately, it was a very tiny part of him and he could drown out its voice easily enough.

There was something very primal, something genuinely Valen, which could not agree with _not_ fighting the enemy on sight:

There were the avariel elves, a graceful people who had fallen under a mighty spell and had been torn apart from their home and their soaring skies and had been brought to a stinking Underdark cave by the combined power of Halaster and the Mirror of All Seeing. They were Bystanders. There were Yria and he, two stubborn individuals who were pretty much able to level a whole battlefield on their own and who had a Mission – that of recovering the Mirror of All Seeing, restoring the Bystanders, and ultimately defeating the Valsharess. They were Friends. And then, there were the Valsharess and her troops, an eclectic bunch of bastards who threatened everything in a 100 mile radius. They were the Foes. It was an easy enough classification, in Valen's mind.

And according to Valen's mind, the Friends were supposed to battle the Foes and to accomplish the Mission, all the while not involving the Bystanders. Simple and effective.

That was why he had been quite annoyed when they had hiked all the way to the small cave where the former Queen was hiding to try to pry some information out of her and, upon seeing a small group of drow commanded by the same Red Sister they had battled before, had hidden.

He was okay with the idea of an ambush, but when the score of trained assassins had paraded by under their noses – literally, for they were crouching behind a rocky outcrop off to one side of the main path and quite high above it – and this had provoked no reaction whatsoever from the sorceress, his scheme of things had shattered and he had been quite angered.

Valen couldn't see how it could be a good idea to let the Foes go without attempting to kill them: it was inconceivable for that base part of him to let those sly warriors walk past and regroup, not erasing the haughty grimace from the face of the Red Sister with a clean swipe of Devil's Bane while their guard was down, crushing her skull and to see if she could still cast her gods damned spells with the top of her head mashed against her jaw...

... The primal thing in him sounded an awful lot like the demon, now that Valen stopped to think about it...

With a low, menacing grunt, he managed to shove out of his mind some of his anger – or of his pride, he wasn't quite sure which one and he didn't feel up to the task of sorting those two apart. Through gritted teeth, he admitted inwardly that perhaps they weren't ready to confront the powerful dark elven cleric as of yet, and that, after all, the confrontation was not necessary in order to get the information.

The demon complained, saying that the Red Bitch had carried one of the mirror shards on her at the time and that, had they attacked, it could be theirs now; but Valen scolded it, saying that she'd have teleported her ass to safety _again_ and left them heavily outnumbered fighting a bunch of footsoldiers _again_. The demon made to protest, but Valen put his foot down and said that that was that, and it quieted.

The warrior threw a glance at the sorceress, her small frame protected behind her crossed arms and radiating an almost tangible aura of something that felt for all the world like white-hot anger, and for a moment it seemed as if he was about to say something. But he held back. He had calmed down some, but not enough. Not nearly enough to face the conversation that was looming ahead without losing his temper yet again.

Scrunching up his face in thought, he tried to pinpoint the other causes of his original anger, and to reason them away. Perhaps that would help him to, ah, keep things in perspective and cool down. Nathyrra always said that his failures were brought unto him by himself, because he couldn't see beyond the tip of his nose, and so he tried to peer a little bit further.

All the way to his extended right hand, at the very least.

They had two mirror shards. That wasn't great news, because the Red... Sister had another one and there were two more waiting to be recovered, but it wasn't what was bothering him: he was pragmatic enough to know what was impossible and what was reasonable.

It certainly wasn't the way they'd acquired the shard from the avariel merchant. That one, if anything, had been smooth. Valen couldn't help a smirk: how could it not be smooth, if it involved Yria and a merchant? Then again, buying hadn't been all that easy, since the once greedy winged elf, now twisted and turned into his exact opposite, had wanted to trade for something less valuable. Leave it to Yria to find something less valuable than a broken piece of mirror: somehow, when Valen was starting to think that perhaps shaking some sense into the elf was in order, she had sprouted some story about cursed coins. Cursed coins that only brought bad luck upon those who knew they were cursed and _willingly_ accepted them. Of course, such an item was utterly useless. More so than a broken mirror, which still could be used to reflect part of your face. It was so useless that the tiefling couldn't understand how the merchant had believed anyone would create it. But he had, and they had acquired their first mirror shard.

A small voice in the back of his head complained that she had used _his_ coin to fast talk the merchant, but even the demon snorted. It was one gold coin; and anyway, money was not that necessary for him – after all, every single one of his expenses was taken care of at the temple.

No, definitely that was not it.

The second shard they had laid their hands on had been found in the library. He didn't really know how it had gone, because Yria had gone in alone. _Aha_, the little voice in the back of his head and the demon said at the same time, _alone_. He was miffed because he had grown so used to being depended upon that he felt uneasy when he was not needed. He was angered because he was uncomfortable, and was uncomfortable because, if she didn't need him, then he didn't know what his place was.

Valen shook his head. Of course not; that could not have been the reason. It had been logical: they had learned that the librarian had gone quite nuts, and had been burning down all the books under her new form: that of a medusa. The source had been quite reliable too – the husband of the formerly nice and quiet book keeper. And, as Yria had said when she had bodily stopped him from following, they had not means to turn stone back into flesh.

The demon, malicious as ever, took the chance to ask, as nonchalantly as it could, why she had gone in if that was the case. And why she had come back with a smile, a mirror shard, and a promise to the anxious husband – "there, there, you will have good old her back soon enough", she had said.

The weapon master didn't really have an answer to that, so he tried to think of the Seer again. He could almost hear her melodic voice saying that that was the point in which he had to make a leap of faith, and trust his comrade – and their savior.

It didn't make Valen feel any better. In fact, it made him feel even worse, for now the always controversial topic of trust was once again present.

Just as he was about to sink deeper in thought, soft and clearly forced coughing brought the tiefling back to the world and forbade him from investigating any further the dangerous field of introspection. The once avariel wizard, currently a homeless wretch intent on experiencing the world and on keeping as far from magic as possible, was looking at him expectantly. He was clearly waiting for him to do something. A part of Valen was genuinely glad to be considered the leader again, but another part actually worried about confronting the offended sorceress – if the old mage had wisely stepped back and casually hidden behind a small boulder, there sure had to be reason to worry. The warrior sighed once more and braced himself for what he knew was coming, and spoke.

Or, rather, tried to speak, because Yria chose that moment to explode and cut in first.

"Let them get this shard. Let's go for the other one. We'll still have the upper hand."

Valen did a double take. Perhaps he hadn't known what was coming, he admitted. Was she actually dropping the insult? His eyes widened as he came to grips with her comment.

"What? Are you crazy?" Or are you a traitor?

"I'm not crazy. Look," Yria took a step backwards even as she spoke, "the Mirror cannot be fixed without all of the shards. They already have one, so the confrontation is unavoidable, isn't it? Well, let them get this other one while we go and grab the last shard and we'll still have more pieces of Mirror than they, right?"

Valen stared at the girl, and then his gaze, following hers, locked on the massive tower looming above them.

His mouth opened and closed. The demon roared, but he managed to tame its voice into a rather meek, "What?"

"We don't need it," Yria's voice was steely with resolve. "We need the whole mirror, not the shards. It'd be ideal to let the Red Sister exhaust her troops and her resources, and then time our move and get the price."

"We _won't_ sit here and let them gain advantage on us," Valen growled out, his words barely audible under the demon's screech.

Yria was going to reply, to explain once again her point – the drow would be getting no advantage, just a large number of troops consumed by the effort of acquiring the shard – but wisely she fell silent. If nothing else, she knew that there were some buttons she couldn't press with the tiefling, and she recognized the present issue as one of them. She scowled, and somehow the expression was ill-fitted for her usually smiling face.

"Fine," she said. "We'll go and grab the shard and come out again. But I want this to be very clear – _I_ think it is a lousy idea."

"Your opinion is clear as crystal," Valen almost barked. "Now, let's go."

They opened the large oaken doors and walked along the eerie entrance corridor, making their way into the wizard's tower. From the very beginning, a weird sensation pickled the back of Valen's neck, giving him goose bumps. The place felt dead. Empty. It was the kind of vacuum that can be felt when having a bad nightmare... it was the lack of magic. The warrior glanced to the side, to see if the sorceress had caught on it, and although the stony look in her face as she marched onwards by his side prevented him from asking anything, it also let him know his answer. Of course she had noted it. Perhaps even sooner than he did.

Then he felt the _other_ energy. It was a magic trail, yes, but it was not the Weave. No, it was something that inebriated him and pulsated in his temples and through his veins; something that pumped in time with his heart.

_Baatezu_.

The demon within stood, reared and charged, empowered by the constant pounding of the Blood Wars drums. It broke free and roared in all its glory, tasting the acrid smell of battle in the air and rejoicing with the thought of spilling a devil's blood. It grabbed the man and threw him in a prison, shackling him as it rushed forward.

A piece fell into place, and what was left of Valen understood.

The tower was a place of wild magic. Wild magic meant, literally, that anything could happen, and a sorcerer was all about magic. Yria had felt it, and she had known that she would be nearly defenseless and quite useless. A fireball could turn on them, and even the most harmless spells could backfire and lash out at their caster as raw power. And, somehow, she had also felt the devils' presence. Either because she had scrapped the information from the rather incoherent speech of the former wizard, or because she truly had some uncanny abilities when it came to magic, she had known that creatures from the lower planes had been let loose on the Prime.

As Valen saw his body joining the melee, killing the drow who had entered the tower before them and the devils summoned by the arcane defenses with no distinction, he realized that, of course, she knew of the Blood Wars. She wasn't a traitor or a coward; she had merely foreseen that the demon would take over.

Valen had time to think that, perhaps, it would have been smart to let the drow be decimated by the tower and then steal the shard from them afterwards, but he didn't even finish the thought. His heavy flail swung hard, tearing off the head of an Erynnie devil that had come too close for comfort.

The demon howled in glee as it bathed in devil's goo, and it breathed in the scent of fresh gore as everything went black for the man.

Everything was burnt. The air itself seemed to have been scorched and felt as dry parchment with every inhalation. The smells assaulting his senses spoke of blood and pain, but mostly of blood. His whole body throbbed, but it somehow helped him to keep a point of focus. Something was poking at his side, and though at first he tried to ignore it, soon it became the only solid thing in his universe. He could not will it to go away. He grunted and opened his eyes.

Yria was leaning over his side, her eyes still serious and her face still tense. Valen tried to sit up, but one look was enough to keep him motionless. As her eyes went back to her task – whatever she was doing with his side hurt like all the hells – he tried to recollect his memories. The weapon master could not remember what had happened after he had charged the tower-turned-into-battlefield, but it must have been something big – the energetic sorceress looked exhausted and almost ready to collapse, and her clothes were singed here and there.

As the pain on his side subsided, he attempted to get up again.

"How must I tell you to remain still?", the sorceress asked with a slightly annoyed tilt to her voice.

"I'm feeling all right now," he answered stubbornly, managing to push himself up on his elbows.

Yria stared at his side, almost holding in her breath. Miraculously, the bandages held.

" I... Can we talk?" The warrior fixed her with his cyan eyes. From what he remembered, before the demon took over, he had something important to tell her.

However, if earlier on he had thought that she had dropped the insult, he could not have been more wrong. The young human girl just smirked and sat back, rolling her eyes and recovering a bit of her characteristic attitude.

"Yeah, yeah... I know, you don't trust me, you're watching me, I won't get away with anything..."

The tiefling frowned and pushed himself upright. So much for an easy apology...

"That's not what I was going to say," he started, but then he had to bite his tongue. No, he hadn't trust her, had he? He had had to go into the tower and see the drow in there and the devils, and apparently almost get them both killed, in order to believe her good intentions.

Was it so impossible for him to actually make the infamous leap of faith?

But, how could he ever make it? He was a planar who had seen one too many so-called gods face to face, who had seen one too many failures of the divine to be able to have any faith. Could he have faith in the good of people, perhaps? Hardly, taking into account how some people put the skills of demons to same at any given time.

...Could he have faith in Yria, then?

She didn't give him time to answer the question, nor to say anything else for that matter. With a smile firmly in place, her good old confident self stood and cleaned her hands on her torn and singed leather pants.

"You just get some rest now, and then we're finishing our business here." With that, she left him, presumably to get some sleep herself.

Valen noticed that she hadn't dropped the insult. However, she was not mad at him: she was hurt, and he didn't really know which one was worse.

A healing potion was shoved down the tiefling's throat when he woke up after a restful sleep. He guessed that she had drunk another one, because the burns and bruises were gone from her visible skin, but he decided against asking. The sorceress had in place the light smirk that meant trouble, and the spring that he had come to associate with her step was back, so he assumed that their little problem was over. They had other things to focus on: for example, the last shard.

When Yria pushed open the temple doors, she had a feeling of uneasiness nestled quite comfortably in her stomach, but she hid it well. So well, in fact, that she managed to forget it was there right up until the moment where an utterly unknown spell hit her. She felt it latching onto her body, and she felt her energy draining. It was as if she had just cast a lot of spells, but worse. Her head started to feel dizzy and she broke a cold sweat. She felt that life was draining out of her with each breath she took.

That was when she panicked.

The avariel priest had been a good person. The fact that he was so utterly evil under Halaster's spell only proved how good he had been, and could be again once the curse was lifted.

"Are you strong enough to survive my test? Will you survive the illness that wracks your body by Talona's will? Oh, I can already feel it, weakening you, slowly killing you..." the elf batted his wings and cackled.

He could have been turned back into a kind and compassionate priest... if, in his madness, he had chosen another target.

"Test? Test, my ass!"

The fireball was flying before the priest even realized that the woman in front of him could actually attack him, instead of passing his test. He tried to counter, but the first spell had barely hit him when another one was being cast: this time, five fiery rays pierced the smoke left by the explosion to bite his flesh.

Concentration broken, he staggered back and realized his mistake, trying then to parlay.

As his hands raised high in the air, the sorceress right hand came forward and he felt like his blood was on fire. He screamed as his flesh followed, and with an ear-shattering cry the cremated elf fell on the floor of his defiled temple.

With his death, the curse lifted and Yria leaned back against the cool stone wall, trying to get her erratic breathing back to normal. She felt more than saw the shocked look a frozen Valen was giving her. Through half lidded eyes, she allowed herself to smile sheepishly at him, and that seemed to snap him out of his stupor.

The tiefling pried his eyes away from the smoldering remains of the priest and rushed to the girl's side. He reached out to steady her, and she did not complain when he helped to hold some of her weight.

"You should take a potion... we have not finished our stock, have we? And you need some rest," he said, sounding truly concerned.

Yria, however, shook her head. "Nah, no need for potions. Just give me a moment." It was true that she was pretty much trashed, but even as she spoke, she felt the foreign warmth in her chest.

She smiled, focusing on the light weight of the spidery medallion that hung hidden by her tunic, and that surely would be glowing faintly while it worked its magic, and almost immediately she started to feel better. It had been a touching gift, and Yria had appreciated it truthfully, but only had she discovered its true value the previous night, when it had slowly but steadily healed all of her burns and wounds, gained in the tower's carnage. Perhaps she should have guessed it, for the drow, especially male, were notorious for their pragmatism and it was deliciously logical for a charm that wore the symbol of Selvetarm, the god of war, to heal its bearer. But she had not, and the discovery had been a pleasant – and handy – surprise.

She pushed away from the wall, and smiled wickedly up at Valen.

"Okay, I'm fine now. Let's go get that Mirror, and then let's go back to the camp. I miss my bed already..."

Sergeant Ossyr abandoned his post at the gates and ran all the way to the training fields. He made his way through small clusters of sparring elves, desperately trying to locate the harsh voice of the commander.

Imloth was having an impromptu meeting with the commanding sergeant of House Maeviir and another elf who Ossyr vaguely recognized as the leader of the former slaves just recently added to their troops. However, he didn't have time to find out what the meeting was all about.

"Commander Imloth, sir! The Valsharess is on her way!"

The temple doors opened violently, and out came the Seer, magnificent in her humble white attire. Her kind, wise visage had transformed, and both her face and her attitude spoke of a drow female ready to battle: in her pose, she appeared as dangerous and ruthless as any Matron Mother. And the image suited her fine, because dangerous and ruthless she was willing to be, in order to save the few rebels who had laid their trust upon her.

As she descended the obsidian steps that lead to the former House of Lolth, she was flanked by her lieutenants: Nathyrra to her right, the deadly training and lethal coolness of a Red Sister serving the very cause the Red Sisters were created to fight; and Imloth to her left, his stony expression an example of discipline and his mighty dire mace, hefted onto his right shoulder, a symbol of fighting prowess.

The trio marched on towards the center of the city, were the rebels were gathering as they geared up for the battle to come. The small crowd that was already there parted to let them through, and on the Seer walked, letting her troops share a little of her own decidedness to ease their concerns. Already waiting for her was Matron Maeviir, standing proud between two of her best trained clerics and her House's High Wizard. If the other commanding group of Lith My'athar was worried or disappointing by not seeing either the so-called prophetical savior nor the bright red bulk of sheer destruction that was Valen, their faces never showed it – they all remained stoic as if chiseled in basalt, and only Maeviir herself gave a small, cruel smile.

"The Underdark shall be bathed in blood tonight," she said, with a soft sneer.

Creeds forgotten for the time being, the Lolthite and the Eilistrayan shared a resolute look: the look of two drow Matrons going to war. Savior present or not, the blood they envisioned turning crimson the Dark River's waters was that of the Valsharess.

The last swirl of teleporting magic dissipated in the air, and Queen Shaori was gone. Yria smiled widely at Valen.

"Another job well done!"

The tiefling nodded back, and had to agree. It had taken them way too much effort for his liking, and it had provoked some nasty fights between them, but everything seemed to have been solved – the sorceress had become her happy self and forgotten all about her grudge as soon as she had laid hands on the repaired Mirror of All Seeing.

The pair walked back to where Cavallas had left them in a companionable silence, and only once they had settled down and the boatman started to prepare to leave, did Yria pull the magical artifact out of her bag.

She paid no attention whatsoever to the creepy being as he fussed around her – she had long decided she didn't really care _what_ he really was as long as he was helping her; Valen, on the other hand, didn't seem to sit well with that decision and sat an arm's length away, his suspicious eyes never leaving Cavallas... Then again, this was Valen, so the tension and the behavior were hardly unexpected.

When the warrior caught her amused and lightly vacant gaze fixed on him, she merely winked – to rile him up, of course – and focused back on the Mirror of All Things - On _her_ Mirror of All Things. She just wanted to see...

The dark skinned warrior buckled the last piece of his leathers in place, and ran his fingers nervously through his off-white hair. His gaze lingered for a moment longer than what was necessary on the beautiful blade that rested completely alone in the weapon rack, and he allowed himself to admire its beauty yet again. The pommel and the guard were a plain cross of cold iron, and the hardened leather scabbard was as unadorned as they came, but his expert eyes could not be fooled by this lack of filigrees – he saw the sharpness, the toughness and the perfect balance of the weapon, and his skin prickled with its power. It was the best sword any warrior could dream of. And it was his.

Rizolvir grabbed the sword and strapped it in place. The weight felt foreign on his hip; it had been too long...

_Who would have thought!? Are you sure that you know how to wield me, or are you apt only for manhandling weapons?_

The drow smith smiled when he heard Enserric's slightly nasal voice. He had had a chance to appreciate the blade's attitude when he had first acquired it and had run a few tests on it, to determine what it could actually do, so he just answered while he clasped a cloak around his shoulders.

"Do you think I was born a smith? I'll let you know that I was a fine warrior before House Zarosta decided to... employ me."

_Uh uh... Whatever you say, pal.__ Anyway, how long ago are we talking about, exactly? All this time feeling weapons up can't have been soft on your technique, can it?"_

"Shut up already!" the drow snarled, too insecure to feel comfortable with the sword's undermining.

_Or else?_

Rizolvir stopped dead in his tracks towards the city core, and stared maliciously at the blade hanging on his hip, a rather cruel smirk curling up his lips.

"I am a smith," he hissed. "Keep that up and I'll forge you into a chamber pot."

_...Spoilsport. Okay, I'll shut up, but you get me out of this stupid smelly scabbard! The pointy end goes towards the enemy, by the way. _

Rizolvir stalked on to take up his post.

_...The pointy end is..._

The drow drew Enserric and raised the blade to his face, and gave it a proper glare.

"I know which one the pointy end is, I'm not stupid! And now, shut it and make yourself useful!", he bellowed.

Suddenly, a patrol of maeviir drow was staring at him and the idea of actually going to war while keeping a conversation with his weapon didn't seem all that great anymore. The smith sighed and kept moving, twirling Enserric once in his hand to get used to its feel. He didn't want to die, and it had been too long, way too long.

But he didn't want to die yet...

The image reflected on the Mirror blurred, and Yria was back in Cavallas' small boat. She gasped, horrified, and looked up, searching for Valen. Upon seeing her pale face and her eyes wide open, the tiefling frowned.

"What's wrong?"

"Lith My'athar... It's coming under attack! We must hurry!"


	11. Visions of a past secret

Visions of a past secret

A/N: _I'm sorry for the long hiatus. What can I say, not only I've been busy with finals, but Yria's been being difficult. She wanted to do things that definitely were out of place. This chapter has been particularly complicated to write... I hope you'll like it. Let me know your thoughts, as always. By the way, if you liked the Future Markets chapter, you might want to check the small one-shot spin-off I wrote: it's on the Forgotten Realms category, and, of course, it's titled "Future Markets". It features dear Eldath, Kimmuriel and Jarlaxle. _

**Visions of a past secret**

Somehow, Yria woke up.

That was wrong. Okay, so she hadn't died before and she couldn't quite say that she was positive, but she was quite sure that she wasn't supposed to wake up after dying. Also, she had always thought that she would turn up in some kind of fuzzy tunnel, and she believed that there was some kind of warm light involved somewhere in the whole process of passing on. Definitely, there was not supposed to be a smooth, cold, _hard_ floor pressing against her cheek – or was it the other way around?

The pain crippling her back wasn't helping much to clear her head. Then again, the idea to do something about her condition was completely out of the question, for the very thought of moving coaxed a very loud, very imaginative protest out of her joints. Even breathing was proving to be an ordeal.

Which made her think of the sheer wrongness of it all, because she wasn't supposed to breathe in the first place – and anyway, how could it hurt when she shouldn't have a body to hurt with anymore?

Yria attempted to move, but failed miserably and just kept lying there, sprawled on the stony floor, trying desperately to think. She had to keep her wits; she had to think and find a reason... her afterlife couldn't possibly suck that much, could it? Unless... unless she had ended up in the Wall of the Faithless? She wasn't exactly devout; she spent too much time worrying about money and not enough thinking about the gods, but, was it _that_ bad?

She didn't exactly feel like a brick.

Although... She did feel constricted. She did feel like... like she was choking; as if she couldn't draw enough air in... As if there wasn't enough air to be drawn in. As if it was standing still, weighing her down as a static reality where there was no room for...

Hold on. She knew that feeling. She had felt it before, in what was almost like a previous life. It was a feeling of ultimate order, and, just like that other time, it seemed to have interposed itself between her and the randomness of fate.

"... R-Reaper?", she managed to choke out.

"Greetings, Sojourner. How may I help you?"

A while later, the small sorceress was standing on her feet, facing the white nebulosity that would lead her to Cania, the Eighth layer of the Hells... The only place she could go to, now that the Arch devil Mephistopheles had slipped his own chains around her neck. She took one last glance over her shoulder, to the imposing figure of the Reaper looming in the semi-darkness of his home plane, and then stepped forward into her cage.

The Gatherer of Dust drummed his clawed skeletal fingers on the wooden handle of his scythe, and mentally counted to three.

Yria scrambled back through the fog into the Gatehouse, looking slightly paler than when she went out, but with her characteristic spunk returning steadily to her.

"Bloody Hells! What was that!? I mean, come on, Reaper... Isn't it supposed to be hot in Hell? Like, where are all the cauldrons of boiling blood and the pitches of red-hot charcoals to torture the souls, uh?"

"... I am afraid that is the Abyss, Sojourner."

"Well, you could have warned me! I froze my ass off, you know."

"I did say that it was one of the deepest Hells, Sojourner. I believe the uncomfortable conditions were to be expected."

If it had been possible for an aspect of Death to sigh, then Yria could have sworn that the Reaper had just sighed.

"Uh", she mumbled, morosely. "You are not sending me out there alone, no way."

The Reaper waited stoically while she gave him a funny look. The young human seemed to be considering his worth as a companion for a moment, but the inquisitive expression fled her face soon enough – when out adventuring, you wanted to keep Death on your side, sure, just not _that_ close.

Reaper kept drumming his fingers.

Yria's eyes sparkled.

"Hey, now... You said you could snatch souls back from the Fugue Plane the last time we met, didn't you?"

The Gatherer of Dust nodded. For him, last time had been a mere blink ago: when a skinny and somewhat sick sorceress had stumbled upon his home plane almost ready to die, having escaped a collapsing city by the skin of her teeth. She would have made it all the way to the plane of Shadow, and to the Prime Material from there, if she hadn't been trying to lug about twice her own weight in old fashioned armor suits, rusted weapons and ancient scrolls. As it was, the portable portal hadn't withstood the onslaught of mater and magic going through it and had collapsed, landing the entrepreneurial girl at his feet.

"Well then, why don't you bring me Deeks? He was always saying dragon blood this and dragon blood that; he should be a real warmer if half of what he babbled about is true!"

"... That is not possible, Sojourner. The one known as Deekin Scalesinger is still in the world of the living."

Yria's jaw almost hit the ground.

"What? I died, and he just managed to escape? So much for a faithful kobold! That is so not fair..." She cast a sideways glance to the Reaper. "Well, at least I hope he's sorry and missing me as hell, uh?"

The all-seeing eyes of the Reaper traveled over the planes, searching for the tiny speck of life that was the kobold bard and focusing on it.

"He is most sorry, Sojourner", he announced, not really seeing the point in disturbing the sorceress with the rather disturbing vision of a singing kobold wooing a sulking dark elf assassin.

Yria nodded, satisfied. But then all satisfaction drained, because she realized she was straddled with no helping hands.

The Reaper observed her with something bordering on curiosity, before deciding to point out the rather obvious thing.

"However, I am able to summon your other companion, Sojourner. I believe that the Planar was of help on more occasions than the kobold was?"

The small sorceress threw a confused look to the almighty shadow looming before her.

"But Ree-eaper!", she actually whined, "What kind of a suggestion is that? Other than a very shitty suggestion, that is. Look at what happened the last time he was around a handful of Baatezu! And you want to bring him to a Baatezu plane?"

The Reaper contemplated what to say. There was a very good reason for Valen not to lose control upon putting a foot in Cania, and it involved the delicate equilibrium between chaos and order and a handful of laws older than time itself and a very small amount of Tanar'ri blood in his veins to begin with, but it was a little too long an explanation to bother with it. True, time was not an issue in the Gatehouse... but there was so much freaked Yria he could take, and so the Gathered of Dust decided to go for the abridged, easy explanation.

"The half blood's demon has nearly become a separate entity through decades of suppression, and it has developed its own instincts, as any sentient being is wont to do", he exposed, carefully. "While the Prime Material is neutral land in the Blood Wars, and it would take any opportunity to destroy its ancestral enemies, Cania is hostile territory. Not only is it furthest from its demonic origin, and surrounded by astral energies whose sole purpose it to annihilate it, but it is heavily outnumbered as well."

Yria frowned up at him in concentration.

"So, what you're saying is that Cania will shut the demon up? Will make him a whole man?"

Silence. And then...

"No. It shall, however, stand between his demon and its bloodlust."

"So it will be more or less the same as it was on the Prime?"

The Reaper pondered whether it was worth going on about the difference in essence, if not in appearance, between the situations, and decided against it.

"Yes, Sojourner. The same companion he was on the Prime..."

Valen's slumbering soul heard his name being called, and a memory stirred within him. It was a memory of kindness and of chances being given, and then of duty and of red hot pain... His eyes snapped open, and he remembered.

"Valen Shadowbreath's soul has answered the summons", intoned the Reaper. "He is hurtling towards the Gatehouse; matter is being reformed... Your companion has returned to you, Sojourner."

Yria stood still, her arms crossed tightly in front of her chest, and her eyes fixated on the prone form of the weapon master. Her expression was worried as she watched him twitch and groan and finally sit up.

"Hey, Valen? You okay?"

Said tiefling blinked. He didn't know what he was expecting, but it wasn't that place, whatever that place actually was. And it wasn't that girl, either.

"... Yria?", he asked, confused. "But... you... you died... I saw it with my own eyes."

Yria didn't want any details about her death. From what little she could remember and guess, it had been a gruesome one and she didn't care to have it illustrated to her now, so she just smiled and interrupted the confused warrior before he could go on explaining what he had seen.

"Why, yes, I died. So did you. I just thought you might've been interested in helping me kick our way back to the Prime."

Valen's cyan eyes opened widely in surprise as he struggled to stand up again.

"Back to the Prime? But, how? It is a one-way trip, Yria. You cannot just go and resurrect yourself."

"I'm well aware of that," she said, pursing her lips. "That's why I intent to tell Reaper here to do it for me."

Valen's stare strayed to the gigantic figure of eternal darkness for the first time, and he felt how the air was forced out of his lungs. The imposing presence was unnerving to say the least... The demon within recoiled under the gaze of ultimate order, crying out in pain at the weight of thousands of have-to's and must-not's. For once, the man cringed along with it, feeling the oppression dampening his spirits.

"Where are we?", he asked, his voice barely above a whisper.

The aspect of Death remained silent, and it was Yria who answered his question.

"This is the Gatehouse: a nexus plane between all the others. We won't be here for long, though. Our destination is Cania."

If the name made Valen uneasy, he didn't show it. He just nodded once, a serious expression adorning his features. Upon seeing this, the sorceress smiled and walked once again back to the misty portal and into her prison, the weapon master in tow.

The demon merely gritted its teeth and recoiled deep within its cage, and waited. The walls of his cell had just been strengthened by the natural flow of the Eight Hell's energies, and it knew it could not break lose. But there would be a time when the man would invite him out by his own free will, and then nothing would be able to force him back again. The demon was patient.

"Yria?" asked Valen, his brow furrowed into a frown as he trudged behind his companion over the frozen snow of Cania. "Do you, by any chance, have an idea as to where are we going?"

"Indeed," the sorceress chirped back, throwing a smile carelessly over her shoulder. "We're going to gather information. Reaper said Mephistopheles knew his True Name, and he also said that True Names had a rather important role in his alliance to the Valsharess. People talk, so there must be someone around who can point us in the right direction to find out about this whole Naming business."

The tiefling dared to lift his gaze from where he was stepping and took his surroundings in. The place they were in seemed pretty insignificant, just a bunch of ragged devils and – where those gith? – milling around, struggling to keep close to the precarious fires that were lit here and there. There were just three buildings to appreciate: a massive, square construction, which looked for all he knew like some kind of factory; a small, dark and smoky dump which was partly underground; and a huge and airy building which had been partially carved out of a slope of ice. From the latter, Valen was getting a feeling of peace and wellbeing, a sense of affinity as intense as his revulsion to the extreme and oppressive order of the Hells was. He could only surmise that it was a temple or a sanctuary of some kind, though he could hardly comprehend what it was doing in Cania of all places.

"That sounds like a plan," he said. Immediately making the jump from temple to the Seer to base of operations, he couldn't refrain from asking, "We will start querying at the temple, right?"

"Of course not," Yria deadpanned with a most unladylike snort. "Everybody knows that if you want the dirt on somebody, you go to the local tavern."

Thinking back, Valen thought that perhaps he should have objected, but at the time he didn't see a reason to do so, and thus the pair made their way wadding between Baatezu, Githyanki and several assorted spirits into the disreputable, warm, dark, one and only, Hell Breath Tavern.

Upon entering, a wall of smoky, smelly air greeted them. As they walked further into the dungeon-like place, several creatures turned their gazes away from their previous conversations to stare openly at the pair. Valen couldn't help but feel self-conscious – even though he was but a tiefling, he was bulkier and taller than most of the other humanoid customers. Yria herself was oozing a nonchalant air that Valen had come to associate with difficult situations. Because of this, he grew tenser and couldn't help to be startled when just a couple steps later she turned and addressed him in her cheery business manner.

"Okay, we will split in order to ask the questions. You know what those questions are, right?", she didn't even stop to consider his answer. "We need to know where we are, of course, and then it'd be cool if you tried to get any and all rumors about Big M, you know, his evil plots to take over the world or what-"

_Gross. I keep telling you, the way you manhandle those poor blades is just gross. _

Yria very nearly stumbled. She knew that voice. She could recognize that annoying nasal tone anywhere... after all, she had dragged herself through Undermountain listening to those same snide comments.

_Anyway, are you even sure you know what you're doing? Because you sure talk big about weapons, taking into account that you cannot even swing one properly..._

That was Enserric. Enserric, being loud and obnoxious like always. Enserric... in Cania?

The small sorceress looked up into Valen's concerned eyes, suddenly pretty concerned herself.

"Look," she said absently, while taking a hesitant step backwards, "just... you ask around, yeah? I'll do the same."

And with that, she turned heel and disappeared into the masses of customers. She circumvolved a group of Erynnies who were giving her the evil eye, stumbled upon an unknown tiefling who tried to engage her in a betting game, and rushed into a side chamber where a huge shadow dragon was busy playing bartender before catching the bright shining light spilling out of a doorway.

The light of a forge?

_You've uttered that same threat so often that it's making you sound damn stupid, you do realize that, right? But oh, if you _so_ want me to shut up, then I'll just go ahead and keep all my helpful advice to myself. _

Yria slowed down. She forced herself to breathe calmly a couple of times and to walk to the door and to open it civilly, instead of rushing into the room as she actually felt like doing.

She couldn't.

She compromised by jumping into the room without banging the door off its hinges, and by freezing at the sight that greeted her.

_Helpful advice like, throw a shirt on before our guest joins us._

If a sword could smirk, Enserric would be smirking at the shameful look of its present owner's face and at the nonplussed face its former one was pulling.

The small sorceress was so embarrassed that she forgot about being surprised, and for once, she remained speechless for a long heartbeat.

"... Yria?"

Her name was whispered barely above a breath, but it was enough to pull her out of her stupor.

"Rizolvir... But, how? And, why Cania?", even as she spoke, Yria wondered if it was too terrible of her to be glad of someone's death.

Probably it was, but she couldn't help the relief she felt at feeling a friendly presence when she was technically dead and lost in one of the deepest Hells. She realized it was the first time he looked into her eyes while speaking, and somehow she found a much needed strength in the gesture.

_A__in't this the cute reunion._

Enserric's sarcastic remark broke the trance they both seemed to have fallen into, and with a start, the weapon smith remembered his position, locking his eyes on the floor as his next words poured out, ashamed of his perceived slip.

"I do not know, Mistress Yria. I am but a humble smith, I would not presume to hold much knowledge of the affairs of the gods."

_Rich. But hey pal, weren't you the one boasting of spellsword category just before your slow ass got us killed? Geez, you'd think a warrior wizard would of know something, right?_

Rizolvir felt that the damned sword was shouting his telepathic messages loud enough for the sorceress to hear, and though his face kept its expression, he made a point of mentally screaming his scathing rage at Enserric. What he had told Yria was pretty much true, though: when he had been killed, he had expected to be dragged all the way to the Demonweb Pits of the Abyss, not hauled to Cania. Still, once landing in the foreign and uncomfortably oppressive place, he had been mulling the fact over and over and yes, he had a couple ideas that now, thanks to his talkative weapon, he couldn't help but to share.

"Perhaps the energies aligned behind my demise, alongside with the nature of the artifact I was carrying at the time, were enough to route my soul away from its natural course to the Fugue Plane and into this place, but I have no way to know if this was the case and I did not think you would be interested in the ramblings of one such as me," he covered Enserric's prompt, believing what he was saying even if at the moment he felt that there was much more to the misplacement of his soul and to the appearance of Yria Ingerd than what he was letting on.

"Oh. Alright, I guess," the small sorceress almost winced when the smith fell back to the overly respectful treatment that he had seemed to forgo during their least conversations in the land of the living, but she guessed that it was only a matter of being patient. "Well, doesn't matter. The important thing is that we're here."

"Of course, Mistress Yria," Rizolvir bowed slightly, and surreptitiously cut his eyes to where Enserric was resting, as if daring the sword to make yet another mocking comment.

The blade remained quiet. He wasn't sure what was worse, if its sarcastic voice or its smug silence.

"Hey, come on; drop the 'mistress' already. We don't need formalities now: we need to think how we're going to get out of this place."

The drow was so surprised that he lifted his eyes for a split second.

"Out of here?"

The sorceress smiled.

"Why, yes. We need to find our way back to the world of the living! This scenery just bores me to tears; I need to go back. And besides, I've got a debt with Halaster that I've not had time to settle yet."

The drow smith was astounded. He had known that the little sorceress was fiery and opinionated, but, to defy the gods? To steal life back? To sneak into the Prime and have a second chance? His mind reeled with the sheer magnitude of the task, and with the possibilities it offered. He still had many centuries to live, and certainly he hadn't wanted to die: he had found a measure of comfort in Lith My'athar, a life he had wanted to live. But he had dared to hope for a better future when the city's savior had accepted his small token, and reality had crushed him down.

"I cannot, M... Yria."

"What?", Yria's smile dulled, and she looked truly confused as her hand reached for her silvery charm in a subconscious way, as if trying to reconcile the gift with the refusal and failing.

Rizolvir forced his eyes to abandon the floor, and he managed to lift his gaze to her nose. What he was doing was the closest thing to rebellion against a female that he'd ever pulled, but he had already died once, and he knew that if he died a second time, he'd not be so lucky so as to escape his fate as a male in the Demonweb Pits, and he knew that he just couldn't keep his sanity through that. At least in Cania he could still think, and feel, and he still had a sense of 'I' to cling to. He didn't dare to risk that: Enserric was right, it had been too long since he had been a warrior; he was not good enough to claw his way back to life, not strong enough to revive his little wisp of hope.

"I am sorry, Yria. I am already dead, this is my place. I cannot follow you back to the Prime material, and a humble smith would not be of any help in your quest to find the way back."

For a second time since they met, Yria was left speechless. While the majority of her mind tried to cope with the fact that this drow before her didn't want to live on, another small part noted with a wicked sense of humor that Rizolvir seemed to have a knack for shutting her up.

"But..." she started to argue, but the pleading look in his ruby eyes stopped her short. A negative was a difficult thing for him; even more difficult if he was speaking for himself and not because he had other instructions or other people to please, so she figured that he was serious.

She couldn't understand it.

So she smiled and fled.

_I used to think that you were stupid. Now, you've proven that you're stupid and cowardly, pal. _

"_Shut up," _the drow mentally told his weapon, too tired by the confrontation to get mad at it. _"Besides, you said it yourself: I already managed to get us killed against a mortal enemy. How can I expect to be of help against devils?"_

_Tsk. You were killed because you were too stubborn to let me fight. _Enserric pointed out, with a light snigger, before adding, in a thoughtful tone that seemed not to belong to it, _She wanted you to go, you know. The planar won't be enough. _

Rizolvir startled.

"_Master Valen is with her?"_

_Yes, they popped in together. Anyway, _Master_ Valen? Hah! Do you really think of him as such?_

The drow smith gave a bitter smile, half turning to his forge to keep on working even though he could hardly focus on the beautiful rapier his fingers were enhancing.

"_I was expected to."_


	12. Choices, choices

Chap

A/N: _This chapter was supposed to have been included in the previous one, but then it would have been too long – that's why the previous one ended in such a weird way, I guess… Anyway, I hope you'll like this new installment. It's one of my personal favorites, but I don't know if I made it justice. Oh, and on a different note: I already finished writing lousy coins – insert cries of elation here – but I need to type it yet. Still, shouldn't take too long and I'm starting to think about the sequel… What do you think, my dear readers? There is a poll in my profile about what you would like to see – if I didn't botch it, that is –; I'd love to hear your opinions!_

**Choices, choices**

They did end up going to the temple.

The tavern didn't have the information they needed, and besides, Yria was trying to forget the place and whatever she had found there – Valen hadn't asked, and she hadn't volunteered information so as to what it was – as soon as she scrambled out over the threshold. The ice quarry – for the third, unsavory building had turned out to be an ice quarry – had provided a snipped of insight here and there, but neither the sorceress or the weapon master had been able to handle the constant cursing and eternal threatening spilling out of the workers' mouths for long enough to render the visit useful. So they had gone to the temple, and it had resulted to be a window into an epic tale, a place where mysteries and adventure could be found... as well as answers.

Go figure.

The lead to their quest was a bald, green celestial who happened to have been napping for a few millennia in the eighth layer of the Hells.

... Sometimes the Powers that Be have a warped sense of humor.

Of course, with the pair's luck, it hadn't been as easy as just waltzing into the temple and warming up their feet by the ceremonial fires while listening to the old man's tale.

Oh, no: first, they had had to froze off their toes running around and asking weird questions to pass some kind of even weirder test made up by the so-called guardian of the temple, a Gith pilgrim. This had been a waste of time, and besides it had exposed them further to the already mentioned disgusting language used in the lower planes. Then, they had to contemplate the Sleeping – Green – Man while meditating about a colorful charm provided by said guardian, which was supposed to give them access to the knowledge they needed by navigating the celestial's dreams. Of course, no inspiration ever came from it, and whether it was because the necklace was faulty or because Yria was unable to actually meditate no one knows. Valen had then suggested they go back to the tavern, where a suspicious looking fellow tiefling had rambled something about pulling a prank that involved the awakening of the Slumbering Idiot while the warrior had been attempting to get something useful out of him, but predictably, Yria had decided on a different course of action as soon as the word "tavern" left Valen's mouth.

She had blasted a fireball at the celestial's head.

Well, it wasn't the winds of Pandemonium screeching by, but it sure did the job.

Unfortunately, it also alerted the Git – er, Gith, - pilgrim turned into guardian, who hadn't taken it kindly and had launched at the pair with flailing arms and kicking legs.

It may be noted that for once, Valen didn't jump into the fray – after all, his opponent to be was unarmed – and instead decided to sit back and watch the insane amount of bitch-slapping that ensued, up to the point where a very pissed off Yria Ingerd won over a very singed Gith fanatic.

In any case, the time that took the small-scale battle was seemingly not enough for the celestial to fully wake up, because when asked, he just droned on and on about his True Love, wondering who she might be, where she was, whether she had already found him... In spite of his demonic blood and his lack of social skills, Valen gradually took charge of the nonsensical conversation as Yria's need to incinerate the dreamy Sleeping Man seemed to increase, carefully nudging the being from the Higher Planers to ramble about True Names and the matter of knowing them.

Thus they solved the mystery of the Sleeping Man's existence by listening to his long, epic tale of questing for true love across the Planes, and learned of the Knower creatures, beings whose sole purpose was to know everything about everything. There was a Knower of Names – hence, their lead – but the Sleeping Man had never talked to her, and didn't know where to find her – apparently, it was a 'she' –, but he knew who would know, and it was the Knower of Places.

Valen could feel a headache coming from knowing so much, and he knew that Yria was suffering from it the moment the celestial started to speak.

Still, they both knew they were in the right track, and they were even glad when the Sleeping Man told them to use a magical ring he himself had used before which would point them across Cania to where the Knower of Places was hiding.

It came as a bit of a disappointment that he didn't have the ring anymore, and that they had to crawl into a vault filled with things intent on killing them and reassemble the ring themselves, though.

A disappointment, yes, but not quite a surprise. Was it their fate, or where they loosing their spirits by the minute?

As they exited the temple to face the dampening presence of Hell yet again, the pair pondered the fact that as time went by, they were becoming more and more used to a position where they had to hold their own against whole armies of enemies, then against devils and now seemingly against the gods. It was the kind of situation where people have epiphanies about the meaning of life and of the afterlife.

Yria complained that their guiding ring blurred her vision and was giving her a headache.

Valen stated that it had all been her idea and that he wasn't putting it on.

The world kept moving on.

It must be said, though, that while the Sleeping-Now-Awakened Man's ring was perfect for a celestial, it was indeed kind of confusing for a human such as Yria, because it showed the wearer all that "was not there" and all that "could have been there" and all kinds of other things that made up a perfectly sweet planar mumbo jumbo, the result of which was…

Well, a path, to the utmost surprise of both the sorceress and the weapon master.

The trinket worked… huge red-as-fresh-blood pointing arrows and everything.

But, of course, it couldn't be quite that easy.

Of course, the first devilish guardian to be found on their way had to be alive, armed, and holding a millennia-long grudge against a certain sneaky celestial right on the other side of the very first portal they had to cross.

As a unsurprisingly surprised and ambushed Yria scrambled to put together the first spell that came to mind, she decided that someone, somewhere, really had it in for her.

Of course, the first spell that came to mind was a fireball. It should have been a devastating one, too, but for reasons unknown, the devil appeared to have a certain resilience that allowed it to withstand massive amounts of fire damage relatively unscathed – why it had been gifted with such a resistance while living in a place of ice remains a mystery, though.

In any case, the icy landscape wasn't as lucky as the devil, and melted snow shot upwards in fiery geyser-like streams as Yria attempted to backpedal herself out of the situation and to leave the melee combat in the capable hands of her companion.

But the heated water clung to the atmosphere like a heavy curtain of misty silk, and the soil, usually a compact layer of powdered snow, was unsteady as the tiefling plunged forward. Still, Valen had fought many battles and had survived many encounters in hostile environments, and so Devil's Bane ascended gracefully from the right in a perfect arc without hesitation.

The heavy chain collided against solid steel when the devil parried the hit, but Valen had truly been expecting his first blow to be deflected: in any case, he had accomplished his goal – ascertaining for sure the location of his foe.

A quick pull and a twist, and in was coming his attack again, from the opposite angle, too fast to allow the fiend any thinking time. Again resounded the sharp clang of steel on steel as the creature somehow kept on par with the warrior.

The weapon master attempted to sidestep to perform a forward rolling attack that would destabilize the huge figure of the devil, but the uneven terrain made the usually deft fighter clumsy, the melted snow pulling as his boots as if it were alive and hungry.

Valen cursed when he lost terrain to the swinging greatsword that was effortlessly brandished by the guardian of the path, and whished for one of the well placed tricks his companion was so famous for, even though he knew that with the drastically reduced visibility it was impossible for the sorceress to fire off any spell without hitting him as well as his adversary.

Back out of the melee, Yria would have liked nothing better than blasting their very first obstacle into oblivion, but unfortunately she was facing some problems of her own: for example, her ring-induced headache. Not that she was particularly bitchy about pain, because she wasn't, but the interplanar interactions she was undergoing were putting too much of a strain in her mind, which was already tired and foggy to begin with due to having almost died and everything.

And so, instead of jumping into the fray, they girl could barely keep herself standing. And for some absurd reason, the only spells that came to mind where the ones involving burning the enemy down – something that she had already ascertained that wouldn't work.

Ultimately, it was Valen's loud cursing what got to her, what gave her a point of focus.

She battled the odd sensation, remembering that she had to win, that she had to go back to where she belonged, and started to gather raw magical power crackling around herself to conjure up a volley of sheer energy intended to pierce through whatever resistance the devil had.

Then, a searing surge of pain wracked her body, and she lost the ability to do anything but muse on the bitter jokes the gods kept playing on her.

"What a moment for the Gith's amulet to start _mal_functioning…"

The sorceress felt how her own magic was slowly but surely depleted as the estrange amulet re-focused her own power in ways she had never even experimented with before, a hot stream of rather wild magic rushing through her limbs and forcibly reforming matter to its own needs.

Yria's perspective of the world changed fast and furiously, the intensity and quality of her senses varying and adjusting to her constantly changing form, her body constricting and expanding, and her skin hardening or softening or sprouting fur to the point where she could no longer tell what she was, what she was becoming, what she'd been… to the point where there was only pain left.

Meanwhile, Valen was oblivious to the dangerous situation situation the human was in, mainly because he was facing his very own predicament. It seemed that the devil had spent all the time passed since the planetar's gambit training and nurturing a more than healthy thirst for revenge, for the strength, skill and rage that were to be found behind each of its attacks was like nothing that Valen had ever seen before. Somehow, Valen had lost the initiative along the flurry of blows dealt by the guardian, and was baing hard pressed to hold his own.

Had he become complacent since his Blood War warrior days were over?

Was he so used to his combat superiority among the drow that he had lost his edge?

Or was that devil truly so superior?

Perhaps, though, the only reason was the one he was not covering: it was a man's fight, not a demonling's.

And as the battle raged on, its devastating effects escalating ever more, the demon within watched, smirked, and waited.

Valen cried out when the jagged edge of the greatsword smashed down upon Devil's Bane handle. The impact numbed his wrist and his arm all the way to his shoulder, jolting him so badly that he tasted his own blood in his mouth when he bit his tongue.

The next blow was too quick in coming, so quick that the warrior's footwork barely could keep up.

The heavy mist that hung in the air was starting to dissipate, but instead of bringing hope, the increased visibility only gave Valen a better view of the kind of monster that was crushing him down, for the settling vapor only succeeded in making the terrain even more unsteady.

The possibility of loosing the fight was becoming more and more likely, and as the weapon master made an attempt to regain the lead, he realized that he had to acknowledge it.

And indeed, Cania was doing its very best to keep forever within all that ever set foot in its icy landscapes, for otherwise it is not possible to understand the brilliant idea that came to the man's mind as he all but resigned himself to lose.

Gritting his teeth, Valen called forth the demon.

And even as the demon surged forward to face off against its ancestral enemy, it cackled with glee - nevermind the cuts and gashes opened by the devil's greatsword, Valen's body moved faster, more precise, more graceful, finding delight on its wound and extracting power from them. The demon seemed to dance merrily upon the uneven blood soaked floor, twisting and charging and just clawing away. And wanting more, always wanting more.

At long last, the demon was free.

When Yria stopped transforming wildly from one shape to the other, she assumed that she had gone back to her original form, even if she could barely feel what form she was in anymore.

She blinked to clear her head, which felt as if someone had cut it off, kicked it about, and then reattached it, and she decided that he, she'd gone through this cute, tiny, almost invisible – invisible being the keyword – pixie-like form not so long ago, and that she would like to go back to it, thank you very much.

Because she really, really didn't want to get involved in the carnage that was going on in front of her eyes.

The only good thing was that Valen didn't seem to need her help anymore – which was good because she was in no condition whatsoever to be offering it anyway.

Still, when the seemingly invincible foe went down, she couldn't bring herself to be happy about it at all.

After all, Valen's eyes were still demonic red when he gave her a victorious grin.

"Valen? You…" she should have asked if he was okay, but she simply couldn't. "You there?"

The man made a feeble attempt at answering, but his leash was firmly in place and the demon merely snorted. Now that it was free, nothing would imprison it again. It would let Cania drain the man's hopes and will and it would destroy anything that stood on its way.

Starting by that particularly annoying sorceress.

The demon rolled his shoulders, and balanced the heavy flail in its hands, moving forward ever so slightly, its malevolent red eyes fixed on Yria.

The girl suppressed her instincts telling her to scramble away, knowing beforehand that it was a doomed attempt, and instead fought valiantly to gather her wits, to try to reach within the endless pool of magic that usually was never too far away from her soul and shove something into the advancing demon's face.

Preferably something big and hot and liable to go _KABOOM._

Like a fireball.

But she was too pained and too exhausted to pull even that one off. And she had a feeling that no matter how good she was, she wasn't going to be able to fast talk her way out of this particular one.

"Damn it, Reaper! If I make it out of this one alive, you're going to hear from me!", she muttered, darkly. "Suppressed demon, my ass!"

The demon advanced on her, an unknown expression twisting and darkening Valen's features to the point where they were almost unrecognizable.

It got close enough to strike, and no miraculous realization dawned on Yria to save her in the last possible moment when facing certain death.

The demon twisted its torso slightly as it swung the heavy flail backwards to gain momentum, and then it swung forwards for the kill…

…and it stopped.

The heavy spiked head hit square on a plain iron blade, and even though it trembled a bit, the formidable blow was deflected.

Yria blinked and shook Deekin's Doom Song out of her mind.

She stared dumbly along the interfering weapon, up into its wielder.

Near-death hallucinations, she surmised.

The demon growled, surprised by the interruption, but then it laughed exhilarated and surged forward. It was always happy at the perspective of more fodder.

And mere fodder it should have been, but his opponent fought almost recklessly, as someone who's got nothing left to lose is bound to do, and so, somehow, he managed to keep up with the demon, boot-clad feet dancing nimbly upon the snow and blades weaving a protective wall against the planar's onslaught.

Still, Valen was physically much more imposing, full of raw strength, and the furious blows it dealt would be enough to break down almost any enemy in a matter of seconds.

Rizolvir was no exception. Even though he was strong and well-muscled for a dark elf, there was very little he could do against someone of Valen's prowess.

And certainly, he would have died, as predicted, if he had been truly fighting recklessly. If he had been fighting alone, as he had fought in the battle for Lith My'athar.

But when the demon feinted upwards, as if to come in straight from the left, only to reverse its grip on the weapon and to come in an impossibly high angle from the right and the drow hesitated, knowing he couldn't evade, Enserric screamed and prompted him to readjust his off-hand weapon and to simply let his body go, crouching low and rolling in the wake of the swinging weapon.

Rizolvir let his muscles comply, and when he came up again, almost unable to feel anything on the left side of his body due to the reverberating strength of the blow, he was right behind the demon, and was too close for it to fend him off.

He held Enserric upside-down in his good hand, the long blade resting along his forearm as he switched to a dirty, close-quarters fighting technique that was mostly rejected by drow sword fighters for its lack of style but that had served him to kill more than one proud weapon master when the walls of the Underdark closed around and space was a luxury, and then he gyrated and attacked while his other sword was still tangled up with the flail's chain.

The demon tried to sidestep the oncoming blade, yanking hard on his weapon to keep the drow at a distance and out of striking range, and it half succeeded in throwing off the shorter male.

But, if nothing else, Rizolvir was accustomed to pain and was not easily deterred by it, so he ignored the sickening crack of his shoulder pulling free and completed the maneuver.

Enserric's blade screeched against Valen's cuirass…

And found an opening – ironically enough, it was its creator the one who could get past the almost impenetrable plate. Still, it was a ridiculously small wound, and by principle, it shouldn't have affected the demon, but then again.

But then again, it was no normal weapon the one who inflicted the tiny cut.

Enserric bit Valen's flesh and latched onto the demon's soul, glowing a ruby red as it started sucking away its life force.

The demon, trapped by Enserric's power, could only stare into the face of the simple elf who had – did he dare say it – defeated it.

Rizolvir's eyes merely stared back, glinting maliciously behind a wicked smirk. If he was surprised to see that the planar's life force was entering him and mending his own wounds, he didn't show it: he just waited while his shoulder knit back together and all his bruises and cuts faded to nothing while the demon trashed and growled, desperately trying to free itself.

The dark elf's smirk widened into a full fledged smile: for the first time since Valen joined the rebel's ranks as a commander, there was fear twisting those haughty features of his. The drow twisted the weapon in a bit further, and allowed it to keep draining the demon's power, and mentally he felt his sword smile smugly.

_Tsk. Easy as pie, pal. I _told_ you, you only needed to get the stick out of your ass and we'd win!_

Devil's Bane slipped out of the demon's weakened grasp, and its feral gaze of fear turned into one of rage, hate and desperation as Valen's body sunk to the snow on its knees.

It stared up into the ruby eyes that were contemplating him, and even though its jaw muscles were so spasmodically tense that not a intelligible sound could be uttered, the smith understood the promise of revenge and pain displayed on those maddened orbs.

For him, it didn't matter: the demon could no break free, and so, it did the only thing it could to survive before all of its strength was passed over the Enserric's wielder.

It fled.

Valen's cyan eyes opened with a jolt to look into merciless crimson ones, before the man felt a sharp, painful tug at his soul.

Then, all the injuries his body had sustained and the abuse it had suffered caught up with him, and he collapsed with an ear-shattering cry.


	13. To rule or to exploit

A/N: _Wow, a 6K chapter! I've decided not to split it, though... hope you guys like it! It's the bulk of Cania's experience, and I think it'll be the second-to-last chapter. Lots of dialogue and characterization ahead... Enjoy it! And by the way, if there's something you would like to point out, or some request or anything, now is the time to leave a review!_

**

* * *

**

To rule or to exploit

Valen woke up with a start, memories of what the demon had done gnawing away at his conscience even before he had time to ascertain his situation. He sat up abruptly, and the rash movement made him heave violently. When he regained enough composure to notice his surroundings, he saw that night had come over the endless wastelands of Cania. He had to be reasonably close to where he had fallen, but the quietness of the air told him that he was not too close – any stray devil happening upon the scene to investigate, or any wandering scavenger seeking a banquet, would surely not run into him. He let his gaze wonder about, attempting to figure out his exact whereabouts, and his eyes swept over a crackling fire of an unnatural color, and then stopped upon an ebony face that calmly observed him from the shadows.

So it hadn't been a dream.

"Rizolvir," he addressed the dark figure, trying to sit up straighter.

The male elf just stared at him for a while longer, no emotion whatsoever peering into his cold features, until finally acknowledging the presence of the weapon master. A small, harsh smirk drew itself across his otherwise perfectly still face.

"Valen."

_You've ridden him of the title, uh? Good, good; I might be able to make a decent drow out of you yet, _the telepathic message from Rizolvir's sentient sword popped into the drow's mind accompanied of a small chuckle.

"_There is no Seer to anger now," _was the dry, silent answer, formulated by the drow in his own mind. _"And he certainly does not deserve any title from his own merits."_

The tiefling, unaware of the mute dialogue going on right before his eyes, shifted uncomfortably under the continued scrutiny, feeling rather self-conscious after recent events.

"I wasn't aware of your abilities as a warrior," he intended it as a comment, but seeing as he was on the defensive and social skills were never his forte, it came out as an accusation.

_Eh, I'm not the only one saying that you look like a pansy fighter, right, _spellsword_?_

The dark elf ignored Enserric's comment, too used to its snide jabs by then, and merely lifted an amused white eyebrow.

"Contrary to popular belief, I was _not_ born a smith. And now, do rest," Rizolvir's attention left Valen as if the tiefling wasn't even there anymore, and just in case the obvious cue hadn't been clear enough, he added: "We will be leaving in the morrow, and it would never do if you are still this weak."

Valen blinked, perplexed and unable to recognize Lith My'athar's meek and compliant smith in the detached elf in front of him. Still, he refused to be dismissed, so he pressed the matter.

"Are you joining us, then?"

Rizolvir's whole attention was focused on something glittering in his hands – was it the Gith's amulet? - and he didn't even bother to lift his eyes as he answered.

"If all you are going to do is point out the obvious, then I suggest you keep it to a minimum," he murmured. "Mistress Yria needs her rest."

Only then did Valen search out the little sorceress. She was to the other side of the dark elf, close to the fire: a small bundle of curled up cloaks and traveling comforters, sound asleep. The tiefling was glad for the reprieve: after all, how do you confront someone you've tried to kill?

And he had been damn close to managing it, too: if his demon hadn't been so unceremoniously kicked back, he wouldn't have been able to regain control on his own. Cania somehow created a barrier between it and him, but he had learned the hard way that the barrier worked both ways: it strengthened control, no matter who was actually in control at the moment.

There was a reason for this, yes, of course, but Valen wasn't knowledgeable enough to have learnt it, nor restless enough to care: for him, all that mattered was the fact that he couldn't allow the demon any kind of leverage against him again. He was fighting on his own, and somehow the idea was much more worrisome than it was liberating.

All in all, not very happy thoughts to fall asleep to.

o O o

The former smith was slightly tired and could feel the cramps forming on his back and legs, but he quickly decided that forgoing his reverie the previous night had been worth the results. He had kept a weary eye on the tiefling all the time, mainly because even if he couldn't kill the planar, he still disliked the proud weapon master very much, but mostly he'd been studying the amulet of the Gith guardian. When he had made his appearance, Yria had been clutching it, and even if she had blacked out shortly after the fight was over, he could tell that she'd not mastered the item – the magical burns along her arms and neck were painfully obvious. Therefore, he had applied himself to the task of unraveling its use.

As the night wore on, and he ascertained the elaborated transmutation spells imbued into the piece of jewelry, he also had time to ascertain how the sorceress' unconsciousness became sleep and how her arms slowly healed up, leaving nothing but tender flesh behind.

_So what do you think it means, that she's still wearing your necklace?, _an amused Enserric wondered aloud in Rizolvir's mind.

"_It means nothing. It is but a useful item, nothing else."_

_Pal, you do know that I can read your thoughts, right? Thinking up a lie to cover them ain't very smart... Not that you're very smart to begin with..._

"_Be silent. I need to concentrate, and your annoying voice prevents me from doing so."_

_You need to concentrate harder just to stare at her? Creepy, creepy..._

The drow felt the slight heat of embarrassment rising up his face.

"_Do not be ridiculous. This amulet..."_

_That amulet was totally studied in the first half an hour, pal. The rest of the night's been merely stalking. _

A hiss escaped Rizolvir's lips. Sometimes the sentient sword was too sharp for its own good. What it said was true: after all, he was a specialist in transmutation. If any normal female ever learnt of his behavior, he would get severely punished for his lack of respect. He couldn't help but wonder what Yria would do if...

_Do find it out, pal, _Enserric interrupted unceremoniously his line of thought. _She's wide awake and your vacant stare is starting to worry her, if I'm any judge..._

Rizolvir startled, realized that he was indeed staring, and dropped his gaze.

"Good morning, M..."

_Drop the Mistress already, pal. You're blind if you've not realized yet that it bothers her._

"... Yria. How are you feeling?," grudgingly, the drow had to admit that Enserric had a point. She seemed partial to avoiding titles, and she had asked him to drop treatment before.

"I'm as good as can be expected, I guess," the sorceress managed to pull a smile and tactfully avoided mention to his sudden change of heart and timely appearance. However, her gaze turned wary when it landed on the amulet still held tightly in the drow's grip. "I bet I'll be better if that thing is far, far away from me forever."

The spellsword smiled in turn. His night of vigil was about to pay off.

"I will dispose of it, if that is your wish, but it is a rather interesting artifact. Its greatest complexity is the simplicity of the transmogrifying it allows the user to perform."

If he knew anything about Yria Ingerd, it was the fact that she couldn't let power, or knowledge, slip her by. Much less both things at the same time.

He had all her attention.

"Simple?," she looked skeptical, but ready to listen, her head slightly tilted to the side. "I don't think it's simple... it sure hurts like... well, like something that hurts very much!"

"I reckon it must have hurt, due to lack of control. Under normal circumstances, it should be slightly uncomfortable at worst. If you would, perhaps I can explain to the best of my humble abilities..."

Valen came about nearly three hours later, and the two arcane casters were still huddled together over a glittering, non-impressive looking scrap of gold. Still, the tiefling didn't have time to wonder.

"Hey Valen! Good to have you back!," Yria shouted as soon as she spotted him awake.

Just like that, and it was as if the demon had never really been around.

Sometimes he wished that he had that easy way with people.

"Thanks. It feels good, too," he managed.

The sorceress shot him a brilliant smile.

"I'm sure. And now that we're all here, we can get moving!"

She tucked the Gith's amulet away into one of her many pouches, rose and dusted the snow off her pants before putting the celestial's ring on once again. She blinked a few times and bounced off with renewed energy, following her less-than-tangible lead. Valen allowed himself to smile crookedly at her characteristic display, and seeing that the camp was already dismantled, he took a couple of strides and fell in step with Yria, as Rizolvir silently adjusted his two longswords to his hips and brought up the rear of the small expedition.

The weapon master looked at his fragile looking friend – just when had he started thinking about her as a friend, anyway? – and cleared his throat to call her attention.

"How are you feeling?", he had meant to ask about wearing the ring, but obviously she got it the wrong way.

"Peachy! The stupid Gith's collar pulling a trick on me yesterday almost squashed me, but luckily it stopped before push came to shove. And well, when the shove did come Rizolver showed up, so..."

"You don't seem awfully surprised to see him," the warrior waded around the painful topic of his temporary 'possession' as best as he could.

"... I saw him before. Down in the tavern."

The planar wondered if that was the reason she'd been so upset, but decided against asking, knowing that she'd surely sidestep the question anyway.

That she went on explaining herself was truly a surprise.

"It's just that he didn't want to come at first, and, honestly, how can anyone not want to live? It was pretty weird, you know. But I'm glad he changed his mind."

Valen frowned, mildly worried. He couldn't help but recall the feeling of his very soul being forcibly sucked away.

"You trust him?," he asked, lowering his voice. "He was never a follower of Eilistrey, and you know that the other drow are a dangerous kind. Particularly dangerous if that weapon of his is involved... I've got a feeling nothing short of evil could brandish it."

Yria sighed. There he was, he and his trust issue again.

The tiefling's comments weren't news for her. She thought of the silver pendant around her neck – she knew that he followed Selvetarm. The small sorceress wasn't too worried over the fact that she knew absolutely nothing about said god, other than that he was also called The Spider that Waits or something like that. And of course, she didn't give a second thought to the allegedly evil weapon – after all, Enserric had been her gift.

But of course, far be it from Yria to reveal it all.

"Yup, I do trust him."

A few paces behind, a slightly nasal voice strolled around a certain dark elf's mind.

_You are aware that eavesdropping is a nasty habit, right, pal?_

"_Shut up,"_ came the prompt reply, but there was a smile behind the curt words.

_Geez, it doesn't take much to make you happy, does it? I wonder what would have happened if you had told her the truth?_

"_I told her the truth,"_ Rizolvir's answer was slighly forceful.

_You are along for the ride because you feel indebted for all she did back in Lith My'athar?_

"_Correct."_

_Delusional, _the sentient sword actually snorted. _Try 'because I wanted to...'_

"_Enserric,"_ the dark elf's fist closed upon the sword pommel in a not-so-subtle warning, and with a dejected sigh, the sword decided to obey for once.

It was funnier to let the drow fight with his sense of propriety and figure things out on his own, anyway.

And so, on and on they trudged through the snow, and the ice, and the – the lava rivers? Yes, somehow a huge lava river was coursing down Cania. Whether it was the Styx or not, they didn't really stop to consider it, though, because the only thing on their minds was their temporary good luck: they hadn't encountered any other guardian, and they seemed to be scurrying along pretty well.

All the better, because Valen didn't want to have a drawn Enserric anywhere too close, Rizolvir didn't want to have to back up a demon he had almost slain, and Yria... Well, Yria didn't want to fight, period. After all, she was not going to find anyone's True Name if something happened to her first.

But of course, good luck never seemed to be their lot in life anyway.

After crossing a series of portals, taking a side route to teach a lesson to a mimic who thought it could get away with stealing Yria's stuff – Yria's, of all people! – and finding a way across the lava torrent, they found intelligent life once again.

Rizolvir stopped in his tracks as leader and took the Green/Sleeping Man's ring off his finger – of course, how could he not have been eventually cajoled by Yria into wearing it?

"There are people ahead. Three different entities at the very least, and we must assume that they are enemies," he reported.

"You've got some kind of hidden smith power to tell you that?," grunted Valen, showing his trademark suspicion.

But the drow didn't bit the bait as easily as Yria used to back in the day, and he certainly didn't proclaim his good intentions in a tantrum for all to see.

"I hear them," he replied, simply. "Three different sets of voices. I believe it is not presumptuous to say that I am positive of there being at least three people ahead."

Valen huffed, and chose not to say anything else. Yria cringed: the tiefling had been doing such awesome progress while in the Prime Material, and now that there was an addition to their little group, he was back in square number one. It was exasperating. With a sigh, the sorceress attempted to lessen the tension conjured by the latest encounter.

"How much did that ring affect you, Rizolvir?"

"I am feeling quite well, thank you for concerning yourself with one such as me, Yria."

Valen eyed the drow, as if he was not sure what was hidden behind the extreme politeness. The human ignored the look and the tone.

"Think you could sneak up ahead and take a peek?"

"Of course," the spellsword bowed his head before walking on a few paces.

The drow warrior mage reached into his soul for the source of magic and found...

_You realize that your courting habits are nothing short of ridiculous, right, pal? And what was that load of crap about being fine? I'm in your head now and this place is so jumbled up that I doubt you can find your own arse! _

The dark elf startled and cursed silently at the memorized spell that he almost lost thanks to Enserric's timely intervention.

"_I have withstood worse,"_ he stated as calmly as he could, and, as an afterthought, he added, _"and I don't know what you mean about courting habits"_

_Bah. She is no drow, pal, in case you hadn't figured it out yet. She won't realize what a pretty, submissive male you are and order you to her bed anytime soon. Besides, at this rate you'll be killed while showing your dedication before she realizes that she's even ordering you around._

"_I will not get killed if you shut up and let me cast an invisibility spell, so be silent," _Rizolvir replied stubbornly, _"And do stop those lewd comments."_

_Lewd, my comments? Hey, remember that I can see _your _thoughts!_

Rizolvir smirked, acknowledging Enserric's final jibe, and he quickly weaved the final words and movements of one of the spells he had readied the night before.

Invisible and light like a breeze, he went forward into the cave, and was back to Yria barely a few minutes afterwards, shaking the magic off and adjusting his cloak as a slightly worried look etched its way onto his eager features.

"We might be about to face trouble," he reported back to the sorceress, pointedly ignoring Valen. "For reasons unknown, our next obstacle seems to be awaiting us."

"Reasons unknown, you say?," obviously Valen wasn't going to play along with the elf's attitude. "Wouldn't it have anything to do with you scouting ahead?"

Yria, who knew all too well how it felt like to be the tiefling's bull's eye, smacked his upper arm, calling him to order.

"Come on, leave it be! Of course nobody saw him; Rizolvir's a highly competent wizard!"

The drow inclined his head gratefully, but managed to shoot a smug look to the weapon master. If it was intended to make the tiefling even more uneasy about his presence, it succeeded.

"So," the sorceress realized belatedly that her chastising had been a tad too loud, and addressed the dark elf in a whisper, "what did you find?"

"A dwarf, an undead and a human woman were the ones I heard conversing before. There is also a minotaur, and as I said, they seem to be waiting. I have had a chance to locate the exit, but we will not reach it unnoticed."

Yria leaned back, resting against the cave entrance.

"I hate it. It all sounds like a lame joke. As if it wasn't enough with being incarcerated here, and fighting all those guardian devils that the lazy celestial decided not to fight! And now this?"

For a moment, the two males stood speechless. Yria had dragged them so far by sheer force of will, that it wasn't like her to be so deflated so suddenly.

But, Rizolvir realized, that was what Cania did; that was the way one of the deepest Hells made sure that the souls trapped within stayed trapped within and became part of the Lost, joining the plane force and powering it for all eternity. It had made him fearful of hope and survival; it had made Valen insecure of the man... now, it was making Yria... tired of fighting? Complacent of her fate? He didn't know, but the eight layer of Hell was fighting each of them in the most destructive way possible, it seemed.

However, even if it was the drow the first one realizing what was going on, the tiefling beat him to the action.

He reached up a gauntleted hand and laid it gently – albeit awkwardly – on the sorceress' shoulder.

"You've swept Undermountain clean of drows, killed a demilich, a drow spy and a Red Sister along with her whole commando; you've held at bay a whole hive of beholders and on top of that a drow elite squad backed out from fighting with you," he said, recalling a conversation they'd had what seemed like a long time ago. "Surely the components of a joke will not cause you so much trouble?"

It seemed the right thing to say, because a small smile stretched across her face as she recognized and remembered the conversation. Getting rid of the wariness with a shake of her head, she straightened up and grinned. With a gesture that showed the confident persona resurfacing, she reached behind her back and produced her trusty Spellstaff with a flourish: thank the gods for small favors, it had made the trip to the afterlife with her, as had the rest of her stuff.

"You're righ," she said, flashing her signature innocent smile. "There's nothing to worry about. Let's go!"

And thus she led the way into the cave, Valen close behind and Rizolvir once again bringing up the rear. The drow used his position to throw a resentful look, quite murderous in intent, to the weapon master's back; but it was a look that went unnoticed, and just as well: there were more pressing matters to attend to.

For example, the dangerous looking dwarf that was waiting for the group inside the grout.

"I knew you'd be coming. People like you don't escape the Silent Lord's vigilance," the dwarf was bald, grim looking, and dressed up as a monk. He addressed the sorceress and seemed to deem her companions unworthy of notice.

"People like me? Hey, you didn't make that sound like a compliment!," in the face of danger, Yria became her old self: smiling, carefree, and dangerous. "Besides, I'm a 'people' by myself... I'm that unique! And who's this Silent Lord, anyway?"

"You may be powerful," the dwarf announced with his deep cavernous voice, "but you're not unique: you're one who is in a maelstrom of death; one who sends many souls to meet their end. You are one of the many that unknowingly serve the Silent Lord till the very end, and thus his eyes are ever fixed upon you."

"What a creepy stalker," the sorceress gave a mock shiver before regaining her smile. "Who are you anyway?"

"Grimgnaw," and judging by the tone, the name was fit enough. "A humble servant of the Silent Lord."

_Careful, pal. This fellow's a member of the Order of the Long Death, and they're a nice bunch of crazy fanatics. He might play dirty._

Rizolvir's wrists rested upon his weapons' pommels, ready to draw both Enserric and the secondary blade if things got out of hand.

"_Understood. Thanks for the warning." _The drow hesitated, but he plunged on. _"Do you happen to know who this Silent Lord might be?"_

_Yup._

"_..."_

_It's Death._

"_Great,"_ Rizolvir groaned and fought the urge to rub his temples in exasperation. As if it wasn't difficult enough already.

Meanwhile, Yria had been observing the weird group that had confronted them, her smile in place – even if it was a little less bright than usual. The minotaur looked as dumb as it could be expected from a hairy, two-legged bull. The woman, dark and shifty, seemed to be an assassin or thief of some short, and she didn't seem happy to be having a friendly talk with her 'prey'. The undead... the undead looked like a mage, and he had only one hand.

Yria decided to stall.

"Erm... your friend... he's kinda falling to pieces, isn't he?"

"This is Belpheron," the golden dwarf smirked. "A mage of great power, once a human who gave his own right hand in exchange for eternal life..."

"Belpheron?," Yria croaked out. _That_ was unexpected. "Weren't you killed by the Harpers or something?"

The lich gave her a look as one might give to a bug and Yria paled ever so slightly under the undead's gaze.

"Which is why I am here following this idiotic plan instead of out there ruling the world," it deadpanned. "Why? Are you familiar with my story? Do they teach my greatness to all the young aspiring magic users, as an example of prowess and ...?"

"No, no; it's more like I'm familiar with your right hand, you see."

"You have it?," the lich's eyes sparkled with unconcealed greed.

"Not anymore. I kind of sold it."

"What?," Belpheron screeched like a dying banshee. "Do you know how much power was enclosed within that mere appendage? What kind of a threat could have persuaded you to part with it?"

"Hey, it was not a threat, it was an offer," Yria held up her hands, defensively. "It got me 700 gold coins."

"And you sold it for such a misery? The mere idea is taunting me? Not even a finger... what am I saying, not even a fingernail is worth such a ridiculously low amount of money!," the lich bristled furiously. "At least you know where it is, right? We could recover the artifact once this plan comes to fruition!"

Valen watched amused how the showdown with a creepy dwarf turned into a business conversation, half used to seeing the young sorceress in action and pleased to see that she truly was herself again. Rizolvir also observed the scene unfold from the sidelines, nonplussed by the turn of events, even when an amused Enserric informed him that, if she hadn't such a disposition, she wouldn't have carried a talkative devilish sword on her person for so long. The creepy dwarf in question looked pissed at the interruption, but was not afforded the chance to cut in.

"Well, located; located, what we can say truthfully and surely located..." Yria stalled yet again, trying to decide how attached to his late hand the powerful lich actually was. She decided that very much, but that it'd not do any good to try to smooth over the situation. "Well, I sold it at a Thaymart. Surely it's been taken apart and transmogrified in all kinds of different magical essences and experimented upon and all kinds of whatnots by now..."

For a moment, the lich's eyes crackled alive, and it looked for all the world like the undead was going to pounce on the sorceress, but a bewildered – and miffed – Grimgnaw took the outraged pause as a chance to get a grip on the situation again.

"As I was saying," he stated, clearing his throat rather loudly, "you're no one special. Yet."

Yria pouted in her cutest way, half recovering from the encounter and doing her best to ignore the 'that was my hand' mantra that a very shocked lich kept repeating on and on in its dazzled stupor.

"And as I was saying, I beg to differ about my uniqueness."

Grimgnaw thoroughly ignored her. Obviously, her line was not in his script.

"However, we can turn you into one," he went on, his eyes gleaming soullessly. "There is a huge power vacuum now that the mighty ruler of the eight is gone. Cania cannot remain this way for long, for without the will of an owner it shall fall apart. Do you understand?"

Yria frowned, and looked hesitant for the first time in a long, long time.

"No, I don't think that I do."

_Oh boy. Didn't I tell you that he was going to play dirty?_

"_I do not see the trap."_

_Of course you don't, silly elf. What is it that can actually be bait for her?_

Rizolvir frowned in confusion, and then looked alarmed at the sorceress as realization sunk in. _"Power, money and knowledge?"_

Enserric sighed. _Keep watching, and you'll see just how neatly it closes in, pal._

Meanwhile, Grimgnaw seemed to be one happy dwarf thanks to Yria's curious look.

"... And luck wanted you to have the Relic, to kill the mortal enslaving the great Mephistopheles, and to trade places with him," he was explaining, rather enthusiastically. "Don't you see that by slipping his chains around your neck, he has also given you his crown? You are the new Lord of the Eight! You just have to step forth and claim your place... and Cania will be yours to command!"

"_Damn!"_

_Told you. You've gotta admit, it is neat. _

Yria looked unsure, thinking... thinking too much for all of her companions' comfort.

"_Is that true?"_

_Of course not!, _snorted an irate sword. _She's nothing by default. But it is not a straight lie either, because she's probably powerful enough and with the right support could very well rise to that position. Or die conveniently after having cleared the way to Mephistopheles' throne... The beautiful thing is that it makes such a delicious sense that it _could _be true"_

"_No!"_

"No!" Valen surged forwards, an anguished look plain upon his clear features.

_You need to work on your reflexes, pal. Mr. Horns here always beats you to it, and that's going to give him the girl in the end._

The drow merely gritted his teeth and stared as the tiefling grabbed the sorceress by the shoulders. His clear cyan eyes locked with the girl's, and he shook her as if trying to get some sense into her airy head.

"You can't be seriously thinking about this!"

The tiefling knew what it was like to belong to a plane... he had belonged to the Abyss with he had fought the Blood Wars. He could only imagine what it could be like to own a plane, a plane as evil as Cania. He could only imagine how it could affect the mind, heart and soul of a mortal; of a being who was not designed to feel such extremes, much less to be their genesis. He could only imagine how it could affect Yria if she came to ruling one of the Hells.

He would lose her.

And, even though he didn't realize it at the time, he didn't think of the mission's failure or of the Seer.

"You fought for Ferron's freedom, avenged the beholder's slaves, destroyed the slavers of Zorvak'Mur and defeated the Valsharess! And then, somehow you survived death, and now you've got to get back to the Prime and stop Mephistopheles!," he tried to make her remember all the good things she'd done, all the good things that had earned her his trust, and all the good things that said that she could not possible rule Cania.

The small sorceress hid her eyes behind the curtain of her bangs. She smirked weakly.

_Say your goodbyes, elf. We're loosing her._

Said elf said nothing, did nothing. He just stared on, disbelieving of what was happening. He could almost see the sorceress' thoughts chasing each other around her head, exploring the possibilities, the endless chances that could result from taking over a whole plane.

She lifted her gaze again to meet Valen's, and both the planar and the drow saw the incredible amount of magic that Cania would lie at her feet, and the resources she would get her hands on, reflected there in her gaze.

Their reactions were as different as the two males themselves were: the one, stricken, tried to tell himself that it wasn't true; the other, amused, wondered why he hadn't realized it sooner.

Because, in the great scheme of things, Yria Ingerd was not among the _good_.

She was an opportunist.

And at the moment, there was a pretty good opportunity ripe for the taking, and she was going to act accordingly...

... If no one did something to prevent it.

For starters, something like shoving Valen off her face would do.

"Traitor!," the tiefling growled as the drow pushed him back, away from the sorceress. "You knew this from the beginning, didn't you?"

"Stop it, fool! She won't buy the heroine duty," Rizolvir hissed into his face, low enough for only Valen to hear.

"And that's what you want, isn't it? It is not enough for your race to rule the Underdark, you have to own the world – it doesn't matter which one," the weapon master spat, his hands closing into fists as he readied to fight.

Rizolvir's own hands itched to go down to his weapons and to spill that foolish man's blood, but he still had every intention to go back to the Prime Material and he knew that the planar was needed for the trip, as fodder if nothing else, so he refrained. Still, his piercing red eyes managed to convey exactly what he thought.

"Ridiculous. After traveling with her far longer than I, you still ignore that the easiest way to encourage her into taking action is to oppose it?"

And through the layers of ire and desperation, Valen had to admit that Yria was truly stubborn like that. Still tense and ready to pounce, he decided to heed the warning look that the drow threw at him as the slender warrior mage turned to face the sorceress, even though he felt his distress growing, and almost regretted his passivity, when he heard the next words coming out of the dark elf's mouth.

"Yria," Rizolvir was saying, struggling over the lack of proper treatment and offering her a sincere smile, all the while making sure that his eyes never rose as high as her face, "may I be the first one in humbly congratulating you?"

_Careful, pal. This is the tricky part, _Enserric's nasal voice sounded serious for once.

"_I am aware," _Rizolvir's inner voice betrayed the turmoil his face kept hidden. _"Just pray that I have been a good judge of character with her." _

_That's your fancy way of saying that for all you know, this could go terribly, horribly wrong?_

"_Yes," _and aloud, he added: "The crown of Cania is but a fraction of what you deserve," the dark elf allowed his voice to gain the unctuous, seductive tone it had donned many times before and that had helped him navigate his way up in a House that wasn't his. "My life is yours. I hope you shall deign to use it as you deem fit to achieve the greatness that you have earned, by rights of deed and birth," and then he kneeled.

And he hoped that Valen wouldn't break his neck while in this most vulnerable position.

"Eh... thanks, really," Yria looked at the drow, unfamiliar with the groveling and uncomfortable with it. "But you don't have to treat me like that! Come on, get up; it's just me, right?"

Rizolvir stood up gracefully in a single, quick movement. Even though he still wasn't looking into her face, he could feel the sorceress' uneasiness, and it reassured him.

"As you command. But if I may say so, 'just you' deserves a greater amount of respect from your subjects. Yria is too kind to her lessers."

"With my... what? And to my... what?" Confusion and interest. He had almost gotten to her.

"Of course, ruling the eight Hell makes our souls belong to you, to use as you will. Their power and dignity do not register when compared to yours; we all act sorely on your orders and would never dream to reach your side."

_And to think that I fully believed that you weren't sly..._

"_I am drow," _he shot back, and risked a quick glance to the sorceress' face. As expected, there was a hint of nervousness there... in the same way that images of riches and power beyond comprehension were paying across her mind before, now a certain sense of claustrophobia would be perceived.

Rizolvir weighed the risks of manipulating a female like he was doing, and the sheer wrongness of the act, and pondered whether he should push a little bit farther or not.

He told himself that Yria was no normal female, and plunged on.

"We shall be your faithful generals if you will have us; we shall spread your rule throughout Cania and may it be turned into the fiery kingdom that will make your heart content. There shall be nothing about which you do not have the ultimate word, nothing about Cania that you do not control..."

The spellsword trailed off, and he didn't need to be looking upon Yria's face to know what was being reflected there: near terror, for all the images of gold and magic had been successfully replaced. Now, Yria's future as owner of Cania was full to the brim with other images, far less appealing and even dreadful. Rizolvir's plan had worked: the suggestion of being the ultimate power, of ruling, of having an iron-fist control upon hundreds of thousands of souls... It all had evoked the right thought.

Yria Ingerd was suddenly contemplating an eternity filled with paperwork.


	14. The price of knowledge

A/N:_There's not much to say this time. I've been experimenting with breaks, and this is once again a long chapter: I hope that you enjoy it. Thanks for reading. Without further ado, I present you..._

**

* * *

**

The price of knowledge

A portal opened somewhere in the city of Lost Souls, unnoticed by the many eyes that lived there and that were too busy to stray out of their own business. The fragile surface of the dimensional door shivered, and the speckled silver oval undulated before letting through a most unusual threesome: a tiefling, a drow elf, and a human.

They were a well prepared group, and it could be assumed that, under most circumstances, it would be slightly imposing to look at their ready stances and assertive demeanor, but this time around there was something special – a huge aura of power seemed to surround them almost pulsing with its intensity. It spelled out _doom_ to whoever dared to so much as gaze at them, and it seemed to radiate from the smaller figure of the trio, the human girl.

She was a magic user, as it was apparent from her lack of armor and her weirdly assorted clothes, and it seemed as if her anger had taken over the arcane channels she used to cast her spells, because a steady steam of vapor enveloped the group as the powdered snow at her feet frizzled with heat.

When a spark of fire flew off the small sorceress' hair, the other two companions crossed their gaze: apparently deciding that their own well-being – and their success – was ultimately worth a bit of their pride, the two males did their best to put their differences aside and stepped forward as one to lend their support to their clearly upset arcane caster: the tiefling and his strength, acting as an anchor for the onslaught of rage; and the drow and his calmness, acting as a buffer where all the boiling emotions cooled out.

Little by little, Yria Ingerd managed to rein in her magic – if not her ire – and simply stood there, breathing deeply, her face hidden by her hair and her fists shaking by her sides.

But beneath her somewhat calmer façade, she was still furious, and it was terrifying because no one could have ever wondered that the laid-back, easygoing girl had it in her, that enormous killing intent.

Valen looked over at the drow, and for once he surprised a worried look on the ebony face. He lifted an eyebrow, but decided against teasing the spellsword: partly because he didn't fancy antagonizing him, partly because he wasn't that kind of person anyway, and partly because he truly feared the potential truth within the dark elf's hypothetical answer.

"What a fit," he settled for saying. "We need to calm her down a bit; we cannot take her to the Gatehouse like this."

Rizolvir frowned at Valen's choice of words, but couldn't help but agreeing with their intent.

"Mistress Yria is in dire need of regaining her senses. She could hurt herself like this."

"Herself?" Valen snorted at the mere thought. If anything, Yria knew how to keep alive. "I'm more worried about the innocent bystanders in a three-mile radius."

The unsteady truce was violently endangered when Rizolvir's body tensed, ready to pounce, as his right hand closed upon his thrice-damned sentient sword, Enserric. His ruby eyes darkened to a garnet shade as he hissed out his next words.

"You shall show the appropriate respect to Mistress Yria."

Even as, predictably, the tiefling responded in kind, a small part of his mind noted that, when not talking directly to her, the former drow smith always referred to her by a title. He found it bothersome and cumbersome, and he knew that he should also find it annoying, though at the moment he didn't remember why.

"Who in the Abyss do you think you are to speak for her, anyway?"

Whatever answer Rizolvir had in stock was cut short by a small, delicate hand that appeared on each of their shoulders.

"Hey, it'd be great if you stopped talking about me like I'm not here."

Her voice was a bit strained, but there was some amusement in there too. Valen was relieved to see that she could still smile after the huge emotional trauma she had just underwent.

Coming from no one knows where, a swell of pride for her bit him in the ass.

Eyes wide open in surprise, yet another realization crawled forward and gave him a punch to the gut when he saw in his peripheral vision how the harsh elven features softened and how the vindictive glint disappeared of the drow's ruby orbs: he remembered why he should be annoyed at the drow's extreme politeness.

When white lashes came down, and the former smith fixed his defiant-turned-humble gaze upon the floor, Valen had no choice but to acknowledge that in his own, dark elf, twisted way, Rizolvir was actually courting Yria Ingerd.

He felt… no, it couldn't be. It was just surprise.

The tiefling looked again out of the corner of his eye, just to make sure… No, the sorceress was completely oblivious. Better for her not to get involved: it would be uncomfortable, and it would be wrong – because nothing ever was right when dark elves of _his _ilk were involved.

But just in case, he decided to keep her attention off the drow.

"You weren't there for a moment," Valen snorted.

"Nonsense!" Yria snorted right back. "I've been here all along. And anyway, you should allow a lady her distress, after this awful experience!"

The weapon master was about to comment on how Yria had brought said distress upon herself, but he smartly decided against the direct approach: the sorceress didn't seem calm enough to handle a straight criticism yet.

"Well, if it was so harsh, we could have found another way…"

Valen felt more than saw Rizolvir staring daggers at him for questioning the girl's decision, and Yria herself smacked his shoulder – again forgetting the existence of his cuirass. She sure was silly sometimes.

"Ouch! Hey, a bit of gratitude here! I got this special power to save your behind!" she said, in mock indignation.

"And yours, too," Valen retorted.

"Why, of course. Why should I have bothered, otherwise?"

After getting to know her, Valen would have thought such a statement to be just a joke, but after recent events it shot a shiver up his spine. He would rather not stop to ponder over it.

"Well… better not to dwell upon it, yes?"

"Sure!" the sorceress chirped and started to wander off. "Let's go and find Reaper. Now, he won't be able to just say no! And then we'll see if there is something we can do about Mephistopheles. And then… well, THEN we'll definitely do something about this new situation!"

o O o

Commander Imloth squinted his teary eyes against the twinkling candlelight and studied the parchment that was lain before him. One of his aids had just traced a few new lines and blotches on the already saturated surface: although it would make little to no sense to an outsider, Imloth's expert gaze saw a detailed representation of troop positioning, supply routes, enemy sightings, battles fought, and casualties had.

Casualties. There had been too many of those.

And lately, he had been entertaining the thought that no matter what he did, the toll would keep raising and raising until it swallowed all of his boys.

For a moment, he felt like he had in his younger days, a fly caught up in a web, being inexorably reeled in and cocooned by a huge spider that preyed on the world at large.

He shivered and reached up to touch the symbol of Eilistrey that always hung from his neck, under his mail, driving from his mind the memories of Lolth that still plagued him on occasion in spite of the decades that had passed since he had embraced the light.

"Commander Imloth," Nathyrra interrupted his thoughts, stepping out of the shadows, allowing her boot to scruff against the stone floor to alert of her presence.

The weary male sighed and rubbed his tired face.

"Well met, Nathyrra. Do you bring good news? The goddess knows we could use the respite."

"Don't I know it," the scout smiled grimly and placed a hand to Imloth's shoulder, showing both sympathy and support. "But I'm afraid that I bring you no miracle."

One of Imloth's hands found its way to rest upon his lieutenant's, and he leaned his weight against the strategy table where the carefully sketched map rested.

"You bring more small miracles than I could possibly ask for. It's just that we're in dire need of a huge one," the drow commander sighed yet again, trying to push the darker thoughts from his mind. "Anyway, do tell me what you've found out. We'll have to make do."

"It's going to be difficult. If we take the turn north here," the former Red Sister leaned over the map, and started pointing out different spots and tracing various lines with her fingertips, "then we'll be facing a pretty much straight march that will leave us backed up against the sea. From what I've heard and seen, it is a dead end, because I haven't found any tunnel adequate to keep going from there.

"But if we keep going," she said, straightening up and looking Imloth in the eye, "then we'll be braving Undermountain, and we'll be backed up against the World Above."

Imloth had been fearing those news. They knew that they had stumbled upon the route the late Valsharess had used to assault the surface, and they had followed it out of sheer necessity, but the need to get away hadn't diminished one bit and each mile that the remnants of Lith My'athar's army covered left them with fewer possibilities.

"The surface is not much better than a solid wall holding an ocean at bay," he said, at length. "You said that Undermountain is entered from a city: those surface dwellers will likely kill any dark elf on sight, no matter what goddess they worship."

Nathyrra bit her lip, understanding and sharing the other's fears. Unfortunately, as she had thought it over and over while returning from her scouting trip, she saw no other choice.

"There might be a chance," she ventured.

Imloth arched one finely shaped eyebrow, willing to hold onto whatever slice of hope she could offer him.

"I've been through Undermountain before," she elaborated on her plan, "and it's a huge maze of tunnels and stone, full of traps and secret passages. Our numbers have dwindled dangerously, and the enemy's have grown just as much, but these narrow places should allow us to hold our ground or to prepare ambushes… I know that those we kill will probably be raised again, but it could buy us enough time to reach the surface."

Imloth nodded, for as much as he loathed to admit it, she was right: their were too few to survive another direct confrontation with Mephistopheles' army.

"But it doesn't solve the problem of the surface dwellers. Once we get there, we will be caught between two fronts," and that was the precise situation any military leader worth his salt would try to avoid at all costs, he thought.

"I'm sure the surface dwellers right out of Undermountain would recognize the hero who stopped the attacks on their city not that long ago," she said, trying to appear as calm as unsure she actually felt.

"I'm sure too, but she's dead," he answered, almost letting out a bitter laugh at the thought. The prophesized savior had killed the Valsharess, but at what price!

"Yes, she is; but her companion is not."

This time, Imloth raised both eyebrows. He thought of Deekin, the kobold bard who he regarded more as a pet than as a companion, and the idea of entrusting all of their lives to his diplomatic abilities almost made him dizzy.

However, they were truly desperate.

"Have you told the Seer?" he asked.

"No, not yet. I wanted to check with you first."

The drow commander carefully blew out the candles and straightened his things upon the table before turning again to Nathyrra.

"Let's go. I'll endorse your plan." Far-fetched as it was, he saw no other way to save the lives of his boys.

And neither did the Seer see much choice in the matter, because in as short notice as possible, the eilistreans makeshift camp was up, and a ragtag throng of dark elves, sprinkled with the odd representative from the other Underdark sentient races, started to march towards the most infamous dungeon in all of Faerûn.

As Nathyrra led the way, she realized that the place where they had chosen to make their last stand had been the grave of as many powerfully armed adventurers as exhausted, battle-weary dark elves comprised their force; probably, even more. All the scout could do was hope that the recent turmoil and near destruction of the place had left it harmless enough, and that Madwizard Halaster hadn't had the time to worry about reconstruction.

It was a meager hope, but it was better than nothing at all.

Not even the Seer could keep track of time as the wounded, pained and defeated drow made their way towards the surface. They kept a pace as steady as the physical condition of the weakest among them allowed, they stopped to rest briefly every ten miles or so, and they still sent small groups in rotation to keep the enemy monitored and attempt to hinder their advance; but the Seer could not fool herself: they were a defeated army in full retreat, and it pained her to think that, in truth, they had nowhere safe to retreat to.

Still, the wise old lady did her best to heal her followers and to instill in them the drive to go on just a little bit further, just a little bit longer, even as she prayed and asked her goddess for a solution – even for a reason why this all was happening.

But the goddess didn't answer such questions, either because there was no answer or because her silence was the answer, and the tatters of the once proud Lith My'athary rebel army kept crawling forward into the heart of Undermountain, fighting like devils to reach the surface and fighting like demons to defend their rearguard.

And all the way, the Seer prayed and hoped for a miracle.

It was half a league away from surfacing to the City of Splendors that her miracle caught up with her.

"Mother Seer!"

She startled in her meditations and looked up to see a young drow bowing respectfully to her and trembling with a mixture of sheer exhaustion and excitement.

"What is it, my son?" she asked, and the owner, barely a boy whose name she couldn't remember, visibly fought with himself to keep his composure and prevent his emotions from overwhelming his voice.

"They are not getting up again, Mother Seer!"

The Seer shared a confused look with Nathyrra, who was there in the 'command campfire' discussing the next steps with Imloth, and the commander, who had been frowning at the brusque interruption made by his underling, stepped forth.

"Adaur Pharn, second rotation of scouts, am I right?"

"Yes sir," answered the kid, surprised that his commander actually bothered to go and learn his name and assignation.

"Well, Adaur, perhaps you can explain just exactly what you are talking about? Otherwise, I suggest you take your leave and return to your duties."

"I have just come back from scouting duties in the eastern tunnels of the second level of Undermountain," Adaur explained. "My instructions were…"

"I am aware of your instructions, boy," Imloth sighed. "I issued them. Now please, can we get to the point?"

"Of course, sir," if the kid was bothered or intimidated by the interruption, he didn't show it. "The point is that the area is full of corpses. Of dead corpses, I mean."

Nathyrra almost jumped up at the news.

"Do you mean to say that the Archdevil's troops are no longer being resurrected? We must check!"

"I… I took the liberty of advancing to the northern section and to the entrance to the third level, Lieutenant Nathyrra," now, Adaur did seem nervous. After all, he had taken initiatives of his own accord. "I saw nothing. Just corpses."

But Imloth slapped his shoulder, for a second loosing his stern face as he smiled truly.

"Praise the goddess! Nathyrra, we might just be able to make it!"

The female was just as static as the Commander himself, for if the enemy _could_ be defeated, then they would defeat it. There was still the Archdevil to think about, but once they reached the surface, allied with the humans, their clerics and their wizards, perhaps they did stand a chance.

Only the Seer remained confused.

"But why has the resurrection stopped? What has happened?" she wondered, more to herself and her goddess than to her two suddenly spirited seconds-in-command.

However, the voice that answered her was not that of Eilistrey.

"He was powering his undead with Cania's souls. I've cut that supply line."

There, in the mist of the drow, coming from no one knew where, stood an apparition.

Because Yria Ingerd was back, and she was not alone.

The Seer felt her knees go weak, and if she hadn't been sitting on a rock, she knew she would have fallen. Through a haze, she saw the prophesized savior of Lith My'athar, and the bright red and toxic green drowned by lively cyan that identified Valen anywhere, and a dark shadow streaked with off-white and deep ruby, whose features she managed to put together and identify as the late smith that had served her and her army, and who had died during the firsts assaults of the Valsharess.

"Valen! And.. you! But you are all dead! I… I saw it! How… How can this be?" Nathyrra was the first one finding her voice, and she voiced the Seer's own questions.

Yria waved her hand dismissively. She had changed, the Seer noted with dismay. She seemed darker, furious; her very soul seemed to be screaming bloody murder.

"Long story, really. Let's just say, I've got pending business with Meph here."

She stared out the exit of the chamber where they were resting, into Undermountain. Everyone who was close enough to have noticed her appearance glanced there as well.

"I don't see anything," mumbled a newly worried Imloth.

"No, you wouldn't," said the sorceress, her eyes never leaving the doorway. "But he's coming, and fast. Move along, and quickly: _this_ is personal business."

Imloth understood an order when he heard one, so he looked to the Seer for confirmation. The old drow was about to ask something of the human and her companions when a low, shaking rumble was heard.

That was about all the warning they needed, and the drow abandoned everything and made a mad rush towards the one other exit – towards the surface, and to a new chance.

The last ones were still visible in the tunnels when the wall closing off the side of the chamber closest to Undermountain's heart crumbled to pieces, and the terrifying, imposing figure of Mephistopheles would haunt the dreams of that handful of drow for the rest of their long lives.

The Archdevil stood as tall as he was, his horned head touching the roof of the chamber-like cavern, his eyes glowing with contempt and his red skin giving off the heat of a lava torrent.

"My, isn't this quite the reunion. But I thought I had left you in a place called Cania for all eternity?"

Usually, a witty comment – most likely, a complain about the heater system – would have ensued, but Yria was too far gone to care for such pleasantries.

"You want to know why I'm here?" she ground through clenched teeth and a tense, fake smirk. "Let me inform you, and listen carefully to the tale of how I acquired your True Name, because I'm going to narrate it only this once… Thra'axfyl the Ambitious…"

o O o

Snow, stone and iron mixed together to make a clear milestone in Cania's steady landscape. It was a purely military outpost, a fortress meant to protect the boundaries of the eight layer of Hell, served by a host of devils and manned by an ice giant clan. It was a place of ruthlessness among the ruthless, a place of strife surrounded by eternal conflict. It was the door to the raging Blood Wars that were fought endlessly upon the planes beyond.

It was not a good place to sleep, but the three figures huddling against a rocky slope didn't seem to mind.

Or at least, one of them didn't.

As Yria, Valen and Rizolvir got whatever rest they could grab, shrouded in the unforgiving cold and the whipping wind, unable to light up a fire for fear of discovery, two pairs of eyes stared unblinkingly upward, attempting to measure time and to keep track of the minutes upon minutes scurrying by. Periodically, the celestial vault came ablaze, lightened by the battle that stormed on just a few yards ahead.

If one could forget the situation, even if it was only for a moment, it was a beautiful sight; almost breathtaking, almost enough to be deemed even romantic.

Pity that beauty and romance were the furthest things from the mind of both Valen and Rizolvir as they waited for the reddish glow that passed for dawn to arrive – or for a certain sorceress to wake up and declare the day inaugurated, whichever came first.

The tiefling's eyes, tired and wary of the inner demon and its reaction to the Blood Wars being fought so close, ended up wandering over to his silent companion: many miles had passed since they had encountered the dwarven monk who called himself Grimgnaw, and even though they all had lost count, many days had come and gone since that fateful confrontation took place.

In all that time, the weapon master hadn't come any closer to trusting the elf – not even closer to understanding him. The drow had encouraged Yria to take over the Hells, and, as a mage, he surely had known the implications from the very beginning. How he had just pledged his soul to the sorceress' capricious whims had been either extremely stupid, or extremely cunning. Valen sighed. Or perhaps the former smith truly was too much of a drow male and there was nothing else to it.

"Rizolvir of House Zarosta," the weapons master mused aloud, as if speaking the other's name would give him any clue to figuring things out.

The silent drow, ever so stoic when it came to dealing with the tiefling, didn't move, didn't bother to look at the other male as he corrected him.

"Rizolvir of no House worth Mentioning," he said, as if discussing a sword's quality and not his former life. "House Zarosta was annihilated; it exists no more, therefore I no longer have any affiliation."

The voice answering Valen's statement was cold. Once again, it was difficult to understand how that voice could belong to the same smith who had forged his armor back in Lith My'athar, who had been always compliant and humble… those adjectives seemed alien to Rizolvir's person now. The drow was aloof, detached, and kept a hint of cruelty hidden in his ruby orbs that only abated when Yria addressed him.

Not for the first time, the planar wondered whether it had been a good thing or a bad thing that such a clearly two-faced individual had joined their quest for resurrection.

"No affiliation whatsoever?" Valen decided to press on, since the drow seemed to be in the mood for answering. "What about the Seer?"

"Not to a drow House," Rizolvir tsked, bothered by having to point out obvious things all the time. "As for the Seer, the purpose that made her the leader of Lith My'athar has been fulfilled: the Valsharess is dead. Because of this, it is safe to assume that, for the moment, I do not count myself among her allies: how could I, when I ignore what her next endeavor shall be? Furthermore, I – _we_ – ignore whether she lives yet."

Valen frowned in the dark. He didn't follow the Seer because of their shared goals, but because she was the Seer. The ancient elf had saved him from the demon and had set him free, and, more importantly, she had forgiven him. She had a way to make the good in everyone surface, and she was a beacon of hope to everyone around her. The tiefling actually found it difficult and unsettling, the thought of _not_ following the Seer, and he found it hard to understand how the others could not feel the same.

"If not for the Seer," he ventured, "why are you coming with us?"

"Because I want to." Absolute deadpan.

"If you really are a wizard, you must know that our chances are slim at best," Valen insisted.

"Not a wizard; a spellsword," Rizolvir sighed, correcting the weapons master again and clarifying his occupation for what felt like the umpteenth time. "And I have the distinct impression that slim chances are our specialty."

Ah, yes. That would be correct. The impossible seemed to be rather probable when they were involved, didn't it? Was that the reason behind the elf's support? As far as reasons go, it was a meager one and it didn't explain the drow's initial reluctance to get resurrected, nor his siding with the whole taking over Hell thing.

Usually Valen didn't need reasons, for he tended to follow his gut, but his gut had proved to be wrong before, hadn't it? Surely, without the plane's evil influence, Yria wouldn't have hesitated in crushing down whoever offered her a directive position in the damnation business – he was positive that the small sorceress would be able to see the wrong of it as soon as they left the damnable Cania. He wasn't so sure about Rizolvir, though.

Still, Valen had to admit that the drow's twin sword fighting technique had come in handy when things had soured, and the rotation of the ring between the dark elf and Yria had reduced the strain on both magic casters to a minimum, so he probably should be considered a useful companion. But just in case…

"Yes, the impossible is our job. Still, we can't lose focus: our goal is to get out of Hell, and we have to cooperate."

"Of course," finally, Rizolvir's gaze left the blazing skies and locked pointedly with Valen's. "Anything liable to endanger Mistress Yria's goal must be eliminated."

Then the drow stared upwards again, breaking eye contact with the tiefling and leaving him wondering whether the thinly veiled threat had ever been actually there.

In fact, Valen was still pondering over it by the time Yria Ingerd emerged from her comforters. Bright, noisy and energetic as always, if she felt something weird going on between the males she made as if everything was in order and proceeded to push them forwards: the smell of success was hanging in the air, and the closeness of the end gave the trio all the strength they needed. The Knower of Names was just across the battlefield.

Or so had said the Knower of Places.

The only unsettling fact was that the Knower of Places was a rambling fairy like croon head over heels in love with the Snoring – erm, Sleeping Man, and who had given the information, not only rather reluctantly, but mixed up with some nonsense about a guy called Molikrock impersonating Mephistopheles who had fallen in love with a pixie or a nymph or something like that, being key in a plot where three other guys attempted to kick her ass but then his warning put her on guard, and her twelve tugs beat someone to a pulp. Or perhaps it was the other way around. Or perhaps it was some other foolishness that the group totally failed to put together, because, in all honesty, they could care less about Infernal trivia.

One could only hope that they had gotten the location of the Knower of Names right, given how long it took them to reach a consensus on the delicate matter.

The gist of the directions seemed to be that, in order to reach the encased Knower, they had to cross the icy plane where at the moment a strike force of Tanar'ri clashed against the defending garrison of Baatezu.

It did sound epic, but in truth, the forces of evil were too busy bashing each other in to truly notice the trio of intruders running forward as inconspicuously as they possibly could, and the valiant heroes only had to worry about the occasional flying tree being hurled from one front to the other.

The demons and devils went so far so as to ignore the three people standing still in the middle of a circumference marked by twelve icy tombs and arguing heatedly about something or other while pointing at different points in the circle.

The mighty beings didn't even pay attention when one of the figures grew weary of discussion and blasted away one of the tombs with a fireball, and of course they were totally unaware of the small fairy-like creature that emerged from the melted snow.

If they had noticed, and they had gotten just an rough idea of the kind of power it granted, possibly history would have been irrevocably changed.

But alas, the immortals kept to their eternal bashing of each other, and the three souls could engage the Knower of Names in conversation unmolested.

Right up until the moment where a dreadful sound could be heard, a scream that rode over, and for a slight moment in time, drowned out the Blood War's wild drums, and then its sanguinary fighters couldn't help but notice it.

The outraged cry resonated throughout the icy rings of Cania, and beyond.

"HOW MUCH!?"

o O o

The towering figure of Mephistopheles dominated the battlefield, but it wasn't his power what could be felt. Building up and up, coiling tighter and burning brighter as her tirade rolled off her tongue, Yria Ingerd's unleashed rage washed over the entire cavern like the waves of Umberlee's unholy storm.

She didn't seem to mind that it was the Lord of the Eight ensnared to her will by his True Name; she didn't even seem to realize that probably the struggle against the unbreakable binding was preventing him from listening to what she was actually saying.

All she seemed to care about was the amount of money that the accursed Knower had charged her for a True Name.

As her tantrum approached an end, both Valen and Rizolvir took a cautionary step backwards.

On top of being expensive, the damnable Knower had forced Yria to buy _two_ names, because it – or she, or whatever it was - had refused to tell the name of her 'beloved' without being ordered to do so.

The drow and the tiefling shared a worried look, and they reached an unspoken understanding: they had done their bit, now it was time for Yria to stand her ground.

Because somehow, even after being ordered to tell Mephistopheles' True Name, the unsightly Knower had dared to charge Yria for it.

Rizolvir threw up a magical shield of force just in case as Yria finished her diatribe and an enraged roar made Valen wince, and his own delicate ears bleed.

"**YOU ARE GOING TO PAY!!"**

The sages say that demons and devils are, thanks to their inherent evil and their eternal lifespans, the masters of pain and retribution. However, also because of their nature, their imagination pales when compared to the inventive ways of the shorter-lived races.

And the Lower Planes knew no fury like that of a penniless Yria Ingerd.


	15. Aftermath

**Aftermath**

So it was… over.

It was hard to believe. Everything had been too fast, too dangerous, too… borderline miraculous to truly believe that it was, finally, over.

Undermountain had been freed – even if there was no reward for that one, not even a thank-you, and the random attacks on Waterdeep were over – substituted by Mephistopheles' well planned ones.

The Valsharess had been stopped – never mind that her death had brought about an evil without peer to wander freely on the Prime Material, the important thing was that the dreams of bloody conquest of that one crazy female were over, her consciousness having given in to dreamless, eternal death.

Deekin proved to be a true bard by joining the owner of the Yawning Portal and convincing him that there were good drow and bad drow, and that there was a contingent of the former coming in to help on the fight against the undead latter.

Nathyrra saw the surface. It was scarier, noisier, bigger and much, much more imposing than she had ever thought, but in a way seeing it cut her last ties with the Red Sisters and the Spider Queen; and the one thing that mattered was that she didn't discover this long-forgotten paradise alone: Imloth was too much of a no-nonsense kind of guy to stand behind when he had battles to plan and soldiers relying on him to survive.

Mephistopheles' threat disappeared, but no one ever questioned how it happened or what had been the Archdevil's destiny: the battle's survivors knew better than to reveal what they had seen, and those who didn't know lived happier without the details, so they never asked nor dwelled upon the magic-induced earthquakes that followed its banishment.

Valen, Rizolvir and Yria dragged themselves up the well and out of Undermountain, and they managed to rejoin the Seer in the Sunite local temple, where the ancient wise elf was busy trying her best to help the wounded and harmed, thus building a bridge between the Waterdeevians and the drow who had turned their hearts to the Lady of the Dance.

In the end, Durnan's call for heroes saved the city – but not his inn, so he ended up in bankruptcy and unable to pay for the savior's services.

After a hard day at work, this didn't make the savior any happier.

o O o

"So, what now?" Valen wondered, staring into Yria's eyes.

The city outside the Temple of Sune where they had found refuge was slowly coming to terms with the previous events, and the festering wounds left on its surface were starting to heal.

The fires had been put out, but it'd be a long time before the smoke cleared.

"What now, indeed," the small sorceress gave him her trademark impish smile, but there was a softer edge behind it. "I've been talking to master Prudan – that's the weird dwarf with small crystals on his beard -, who is the Temple's proctor. He was really thankful and kind to me – to us."

Valen smiled. He had traveled long enough with the young human to understand her true meanings by then, so he translated her sentence to mean 'I've found a way to earn money' and 'I squeezed a really good deal out of him'.

"You charged him for saving the city?"

"No, not at all," Valen was surprised, but only until Yria kept explaining. "He offered me a job."

"Really?," now the tiefling was confused. After what they had done together, it was difficult to imagine any appeal in any other venture… and so soon, too.

"Yeah. Well, he was a bit reluctant; said that it wasn't for great people like me to do it – can you believe it? – but in the end, he gave up on me, I think, and said that the Sunite church is interested in recovering a relic."

"You got a Sunite relic on your backpack?"

"No, silly. It's believed to be buried in the Dordrien crypt – that is close to the Forest of Sharp Teeth, by the way - … but I've offered to go and search for it, and he said he could teleport me all the way to Barldur's Gate to help me get started."

"I don't understand," Valen said, though he was starting to think that he actually did, and to deny it wholeheartedly. "We've barely arrived and you want to go again? So soon?"

Again, the bright softened smile.

"Arrived? Where?" The small sorceress shrugged and cut her glance to the Seer, not too far away, tending to the wounded as she could. "To the Prime Material. And I won't be 'going' out of it with this little job, which, on the other hand, is necessary to start rebuilding my finances…"

"What about Halaster and Undermountain? I thought… I thought we would be getting revenge against him on the way down home."

Home. Yria shook her head and rubbed her face, for once trying to think on how to word what should be obvious in a gentle way.

"Hey, no offence meant, but I've had my fill of Underdark for a while. I need to seek fortune somewhere else right now," she lifted a hand to forestall his quickly approaching retort. "But you go ahead. The Seer will need someone by her side, and I think you've learned to appreciate her visions a bit more," and she winked.

The weapons master understood her meaning, but he frowned. During the last leg of their journey, he had realized that Yria Ingerd was much more than a prophetical savior to him, and he had been looking forward to getting back to the Prime and seeing how things developed. But he had never thought about leaving the Seer, who was his main source of strength, the reason behind his life force so to speak; the woman who had taught him that it was worth to struggle, and that those who didn't give up would win.

Somehow, the two had become the women of his life, and he didn't know what to do.

Somehow, Yria saw his doubt.

"Do not worry," she said, punching his upper arm playfully as she had done so many times before. "I intend to come back and challenge Halaster. We will meet again then, and you had better have put together a nice safe city with the Eilistreeans by that time, cause I'm not saving it again.

"But," and when she grinned again, it was entirely Yria's grin, "I need to give him some time to fix his dungeon first: why would I want to plunder Undermountain before the Madwizard has had time to replenish its treasures?"

Valen couldn't help but smile widely right back, and he reached out and squeezed her shoulder appreciatively. It was ok, it was not a 'goodbye', just a 'see you real soon'.

"When are you leaving?," he asked.

"Ah, right away," she had the decency to look slightly sheepish. "Prudan is getting the portal ready as we speak. I don't really like farewells that much."

"Let me walk you there," he said, sighing and regretting that he hadn't been given more time to get used to the idea of parting ways. "I'll excuse you and extend your farewells to the others afterwards."

"That'd be great. Thanks."

They walked together the great halls of the Temple, their steps resonating against the marble and above the quiet whimpers of the sick and wounded. Eventually, they left the most populated area and came upon a side chamber where the weird dwarf Yria had referred to – because, honestly, what kind of normal dwarf would form part of Sune's clergy? – was chanting gravely in a crescendo to activate the portal that had been drawn with dark blue and purple powder on the center of the room.

The pair stood over to the side and watched silently as the rhythm went up and down, magical sparks of divine energy flying as the spell picked up. Soon, there was a clear oval hovering in the air; then, its surface started to swirl and spin madly as the cleric picked a destination, and finally, with a powerful shout, the magical door seemed to be established.

Yria snapped out of her contemplative stupor to find a pair of clear cyan eyes looking at hers. She smiled again to those eyes, her own gaze conveying the enthusiasm over a new journey about to begin, over new treasures to be uncovered, over more money to be earned.

Truly, she was not ready to settle down yet; and so Valen simply stood back and gave her an encouraging nod.

Perhaps the next time they met.

"See you soon, Valen!," she said, and, with an exaggerated wink that would have embarrassed the hell out of him back in the day, she disappeared through the portal.

Onwards to a new adventure.

The tiefling weapons master took a deep breath and started his way back to where the others were, already finding it too silent.

He had barely taken a step when a shadow much too dark caught his eye.

Valen whirled around and stood facing none other than Rizolvir. The dark elf was still wearing his light leather armor, and both the devilish Enserric and a secondary longsword hung from his slim hips, barely concealed by a traveling piwafwi.

The one thing that Valen found himself staring at were those deep ruby eyes. Leveled at him and determined. Wanting him to know who was standing in the shadows, and where they were going. The drow nodded at the tiefling, and slowly turned around, taking a purposeful stride towards the still open portal.

The weapons master had a hand grabbing the elf's shoulder before he could take another single step.

"What the hell do you think you're doing?"

"Must you always state the obvious?"

Valen ground his teeth, angered and frustrated, but knowing that if the portal was still open, it was because the Temple's proctor knew of a second traveler and was waiting for it to cross the dimensional doorway.

"Tell me the truth. Why do you follow her?," he asked, his eyes slightly narrowed as he tried to understand. "What do you want, her power to achieve your goals?"

Because she is as worthy as any Matron Mother.

Because I am sure that Selvetarm will be pleased with the chaos that follows her, with the fights that she seems to be a magnet for.

Because she accepted my token, so I am her property now.

Because I have spent a lifetime as a humble smith, and that would never please my god, so I must use this second chance to make sure that when I go to the Demonweb Pits, I do not get obliterated.

Because one day, she will need a patron, and I shall be there.

Because if I spend any longer with the Eilistreeans, I will lose my sanity to their babblings.

Because Enserric would never let me hear the end of it if I do not follow her.

Because.

Rizolvir smirked, his usually stoic features not managing to conceal a certain amount of triumph.

"Why did _you_ follow her, Valen?," he had been asked for the truth, but he was not obliged to heed his requests anymore. _Their_ requests. "What did _you_ want, her face to patronize your crusades?"

And the drow turned his back on the tiefling, on the Seer, on Lith My'athar, on the Underdark; and he strode on to take his new place, by a certain fiery sorceress' side.

To the Night Above, and then… who could tell?

The only thing Rizolvir was sure of, it was that his second lifetime would prove to be… interesting.

o O o

**To Be Continued…**

* * *

Meet Yria again in _Books - Forgotten Realms – The long way to profit._

o O o

Final A/N: _Okay, this is the last note I'm leaving in this story... Finally, _100,000 lousy coins_ has come to an end, and I must say that I'm darn happy with the experience. _

_I wanted to thank my reviewers, who have encouraged me to finish this, and also the large silent 'fan base' that this story seems to have, according to the "stats" and "reader traffic" features… This tale is for you, so I hope you have enjoyed reading it as much as I have enjoyed writing._

_I hope to meet again with all of you in the sequel to this story, whose first chapter is already up, and I also hope that you will also enjoy it: expect more adventures, more humor, more different character focuses, and more gold!_

_Again, thank you for coming this far with me. _


End file.
